Deep Into That Darkness Peering
by KNO3
Summary: Three of Batman's enemies have teamed up to take out the Bat once and for all. However, when their plan involves using Bruce Wayne as bait, nothing goes as expected. My first fanfic. No slash, no pairings. Now w/o typos.
1. Chapter 1

Gotham Square was a blaze of lights. Stoplights flashed red and green, incandescent icicles draped every sill and gutter, and neon wreaths shone from the windows. An enormous Christmas tree, almost blinding in its decoration, proudly stood in the center of the square and pointed to the now-starless winter sky. A rolling digital text informed shoppers of the latest crime updates, celebrity sightings, and political rumors; just underneath it, the Haute Stuff boutique displayed an enormous revolving Christmas scene, complete with fireplace and animatronic children dipping their hands into perfectly-wrapped gift boxes. Across the street, a huge, flashing sign urged pedestrians to REMEMBER, CHRISTMAS IS RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER! FIND GREAT BARGAINS AT ZUCKERMANN'S, BATH & BODY, JC PENNEY'S, GODIVA CHOCOLATIER, AND SO MUCH MORE!

Jonathan Crane scowled up at the sign. _Imbeciles. It should be 'many', not 'much.' _Drawing his worn, much-patched coat closer around him, he breathed into the collar and savored the brief wave of warmth against his skin. _Where could he be? _Someone bumped into him from behind, forcing the gangly professor to perform an undignified scuffle to keep from pitching headlong into the street.

"Why don't you watch where you're going?" a shrill voice snapped at him.

Crane turned to see a plump middle-aged woman, weighted down with shopping bags and wearing an expensive fur collar, glaring at him. He quickly took in the expensive ruby ring on her left finger, the heavy makeup coating her sagging face, the too-black hair painstakingly arranged under the fur hat… _**Eremophobia, gerontophobia, peniaphobia, sociophobia… probably obesophobia as well. The woman is pathetic. Why not give her a taste of real fear for once? **_Scarecrow whispered. Crane shook his head impatiently. _Not yet. He's not here yet._ Lost in his own thoughts, he forgot to respond to the woman. She gave him another withering glare and turned away, heavy earring swinging like pendants.

"Jerk," she muttered.

Scarecrow cackled. _**Come back, Jack! Come back, Jill… **__Later_, Crane reminded him. _Business first. _Scarecrow smirked and was about to reply when a commotion at the end of the block drew his attention. Crane turned as well, and a thin smirk spread across the professor's gaunt features. _Right on cue._

Four shops away, a handsome, well-built man dressed in a perfectly tailored suit had just exited Zale's, followed by half a dozen chattering models—well, at least, they looked like models—an older, impeccably dressed man carrying shopping bags, and at least four hungry reporters. Crane recognized one of them as Summer Gleeson, reporter and talk show host for _Gotham Live._

"Mr. Wayne!" Gleeson was shouting. "Mr. Wayne! Is it true you're thinking of proposing to someone?"

"Of course he is!" a bubbly blonde giggled. "I mean, isn't it obvious? We've been together so _long…"_

"What, you managed to hook up with him for ten minutes?" a tall redhead replied sarcastically. "Face it, honey, I've known Bruce since college days. Isn't that right, Brucie?"

Brucie laughed.

"I guess that's about right," he drawled. "Wait a minute, where's the reporter? Thought she was asking me something."

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne!" Summer Gleeson sighed, pushing her way through the gaggle of girls. "Is it true that you bought a diamond ring in Zale's?"

"Sure," Bruce said casually. The tittering behind him increased in volume.

"So you are planning to propose?" Gleeson pressed.

"Hey, I don't know about that," Bruce said. "It's one thing to buy the ring, you know, and—"

Jonathan didn't wait to hear the rest of Wayne's inanities. Taking a deep breath, he reached into his coat pocket and slowly drew out his burlap mask. The stitched mouth grinned jaggedly up at him. _**Boys and girls come out to play…**_

"…but let's just say I don't plan on dawdling underneath the mistletoe too much this year—" Bruce was drawling.

Crane slipped the mask over his head and tapped the millionaire politely on the shoulder. Wayne spun around, his face changing from dull joviality to shock and, yes, fear when he saw who had tapped him.

"**Boo," **Scarecrow hissed.

Wayne's face disappeared in a cloud of gas. The people nearest the playboy began coughing and whimpering; not content, Scarecrow pulled a handheld gas bomb from his coat and hurled it at the ground. The entire company erupted into shrieks of terror. Well, the entire company except Bruce Wayne. The millionaire playboy was slumped on the ground, unconscious.

_**Come to your playfellows in the street, **_Scarecrow cackled as he seized Wayne by the arms and began dragging him into the nearest shop, paying no attention to the panic fanning out around him.


	2. Chapter 2

The interior of the Twining Rose Tea Room was warm, dark, and cozy. Beautiful pseudo-antique tables and wrought-iron chairs with embroidered cushions on them filled nearly the entire room. A charmingly hand-decorated Christmas tree crowded against the far left corner, and a tall set of dark velvet drapes occupied the right corner. The proprietress, a cheerful, grandmotherly person in a dark green evening dress and wide-brimmed tea hat, sat at the one occupied table in the tea house. Usually, she made it her policy to not join guests unless invited, but today was the exception to the rule.

"Not the same thing a bit!" her companion was saying. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same as 'I eat what I see!' You might just as well say that 'I like what I get' is the same as 'I get what I like!'"

"You… might… just as well… say…" the woman said thickly, her eyes staring blankly at the far wall. "That… 'I breathe when I… sleep'… is the… same… as… 'I sleep… when I breathe.'"

Jervis Tetch set down his teacup and beamed at the woman.

"Oh, well done!" he said. "Take some more tea!"

Obediently, the woman reached for the china teapot with mechanical fingers, pouring the tea into her already-full cup and causing it to overflow onto the table. Jervis Tetch, otherwise known as the Mad Hatter, did not seem to notice. He had taken off his watch and was staring at it disconsolately.

"What day of the month is it?" he asked.

The woman continued pouring tea.

"Oh, bother! It's shorting out!" Tetch complained, breaking from his usual Wonderland quotes. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he put them to the woman's ear and shrieked, "_Speak, can't you!" _

The proprietress dropped the teapot, which rolled onto its side and tipped off the table, and sat up ramrod-straight.

"What… do you want… to hear?"

"I asked, what day of the month is it?" the Mad Hatter said impatiently. "He's late again! Or perhaps it's the clock that's wrong… Two days wrong!"

At that moment, the door burst open to reveal the gaunt figure of Jonathan Crane, dragging the still-unconscious Bruce Wayne by the arms.

"Oh, frabjous day!" the Mad Hatter exclaimed.

"Put down your teacup and help me with this," snapped Scarecrow.

Tetch good-humouredly set down his tea cup and made his way through the maze of tables to assist his fellow Rogue.

"It's very rude to make personal remarks," he said mildly.

"Well, if it weren't for your Wonderland obsession, we might have a decent hideout instead of this," Scarecrow retorted.

"Why, what's wrong with my house?" the Mad Hatter said, sounding hurt.

Scarecrow snorted.

"Well, to begin with, a real hideout would have weapons. I heard the Penguin keeps every safe house stocked with at least three different types of weapon. My last lair had an entire reserve tank of fear toxin! Even an abandoned warehouse might have a few guns stashed away somewhere. What are we going to do when the Bat catches up with us—stab him with butter knives?"

The Mad Hatter's eyes lit up.

"Off with his head!" he crowed. Immediately, the elderly proprietress rose from her table. Still staring vacantly at some point in the distance, she leaned down and, puppet-like, picked up a double-edged axe.

"Off with her head!" she echoed, advancing stiffly towards the mad professor. "Off with her _head!"_

Tetch clapped his hands gleefully.

"Er—very nice," Scarecrow amended hastily, dodging a haphazard swing. "Can you possibly tell her to stop attacking me?"

"Off with her head!" the puppet screeched again.

"That's quite enough of _that," _the Mad Hatter told her sternly. Instantly, the woman relaxed, almost dropping the axe. Tetch didn't seem to notice. "And that's nothing to what I could say if I chose!" he said to Scarecrow.

"Yes, yes," the straw man sighed. "However, we had better get this worthless lump of human flesh tied up. He'll be coming round soon. And _he'll _be here soon enough."

"Shall I take care of our… er… guest?" Tetch asked, taking a 10/6 card from the pocket of his long dress coat.

"Don't card him yet. I want him awake so we can have a little fun when Batman shows up," the Scarecrow said.

"Of course," the British villain said, "but mightn't it be wiser to card him until Batman arrives?"

The Scarecrow heaved Wayne's unconscious body into a chair.

"Why?" he sneered. "Are you _afraid _our guest might prove troublesome? This is Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy. I doubt he'd have the guts to fight back if we tied him up with dental floss."

Tetch sighed.

"Good point," he admitted, and went to fetch some rope.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, Alfred, did Bruce say when he was going to be home?" Dick Grayson asked, plopping onto the rich leather of the media room sofa.

Alfred paused in the act of collecting Dick's empty mug.

"Master Bruce said he would be home well over an hour ago," he replied. "However, if he chooses to go gallivanting about the town at all hours of the night, probably chasing some lunatic dressed like a cat or a penguin or a scarecrow, who am I to stop him?"

Dick looked mildly surprised.

"I thought the Penguin was in Blackgate," he remarked. "And we just took the Scarecrow to Arkham last week."

"Pardon me," Alfred said, miffed. "I'm sure Master Bruce must just be Christmas shopping."

"Or clubbing," Dick said slyly. "He certainly had enough women following him when he left."

"He's got an image to keep up," Alfred said.

"Why can't I have an image to keep up?"

"Because, sir," Alfred replied dryly, "you have a father instead. Er… may I ask, what exactly are you watching?"

"Oh, this? It's a new trivia show. 'Guess and Go Gotham.'"

Alfred grimaced.

"The alliteration is atrocious, sir," he said.

"Yeah, the name is pretty cheesy. You have to guess the answer to the puzzle within five minutes, while running on a treadmill. This is the first round, so it's a verbal puzzle. Kind of like Jeopardy. It's actually pretty fun to watch."

Alfred shook his head.

"If you say so, sir."

Dick ignored Alfred's comment.

"Oh, hey! It's that guy!" he said. Grabbing the remote, he turned the volume up. "You'll like this, Alfred. He's really sharp. They call him the Genius of Gotham."

"Hmmm," Alfred said noncommittally.

On the television, a young, handsome blond ascended the central podium, smiling and nodding to the in-studio audience as the jazzy theme song played loudly. Just behind him stood three huge screens, all displaying the Guess and Go logo and rolling confetti animation. The audience cheered loudly. The other two contestants, a shy, middle-aged woman in a factory uniform and an older man wearing thick glasses and an argyle sweater, filed in after the "genius" to mild applause. Each of the contestants took their place on a standard treadmill behind a flashing blue-and-gold podium.

"He certainly is the favorite," Alfred commented.

As the music climaxed, the show host walked out, sporting a Colgate commercial smile and flanked by two stunningly beautiful assistants.

"Are you ready to GO?" he asked the audience. "Tonight with us we have Laura Williams, coming straight from the Gothamcorp Steel Production Plant; Jeffrey Mills, biology teacher at Gotham High School; and, the man who needs no introduction… Ted Torrance!"

The audience erupted into cheers and applause.

"Well, are we ready? Here's round one, Worthy Wording! There will be four lines of blank spaces, which will slowly fill with letters as the clock ticks. You only have five minutes, and the spaces will not fill completely at the end of this time! The first person to solve the puzzle hits the STOP button, the bell rings, they yell out the answer, and you will get… one thousand dollars! Are there any questions? No? Well, hang on to your hats, ladies and gents, because here… we… GO!"

Immediately, all three treadmills started rolling, and the contestants began jogging. Behind them, the screens flashed wildly and cut to a series of empty spaces. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ?

"That's not four lines," Alfred frowned.

Dick shook his head.

"Yeah, I don't know… this isn't the usual format."

The host seemed bewildered as well.

"Well, folks, we seem to be having a little technical error here, but… uh…"

The letters had begun to fill in slowly; the screens now read

W _ _ _ _ A _ _ _ _ N _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ E _ _ ?

"Um, we'll be right back after this quick commercial break!" the host tried again. He stared at the camera, smile fixed in place. Off-screen, a voice yelled,

"They won't turn off, sir! Someone's been monkeying with the equipment!"

Murmurs of bewilderment and unease began rippling through the audience; the contestants kept running on their treadmills, sweat rolling down their faces.

W_ _ I _ A R _ _ _ _ N _ I _ _ _ _ R _ _ _ _ _ _ E _ _?

"Everything's going to be all right, folks, this is just a minor technical glitch!" the host shouted, although he sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as much as them. "Just sit tight, we'll have this fixed in no time!"

W _ _ I_ A R _ V _ N _ I K _ A _ R _ T I _ _ _ E _ K?

Ted Torrance suddenly broke into a smile and hit the button. A loud, nasally buzzing filled the room, and the treadmills stopped, much to the contestants' relief.

"I've got it!" the blond trivia star yelled. "I know this one! 'Why is a raven like a writing desk?'"

There was a moment of breathless silence. Then, without warning, the treadmills started again. The factory worker shrieked, but started running again.

"What? Isn't that right answer?" Ted Torrance demanded.

The show host seemed to be having a hard time keeping his composure.

"Well, sir… I don't know," he admitted.

The audience was quickly growing louder and more agitated.

"I want out of here!" a woman in the second row shouted, standing up. There was a chorus of agreement from the other audience members.

"Well… hang on here, folks," the host said, trying to pacify the audience. "Here we go into the grand countdown! Just fifteen seconds left!"

"Fifteen seconds till what?" a stout man in the back shouted. "We want out of here!"

"What could happen?" the show host shouted back. "It's just a show!"

"You don't know Gotham!" the stout man protested. "Come on, let us out of here!"

Just then, the buzzer rang out a second time. The treadmills stopped, the screens went black, and nearly all the lights in the studio turned off, transforming the set into a room of darkness eerily backlit by the glowing podiums. There was a collective gasp from the audience, and the enterprising host thought he saw his chance.

"There, see?" he said, with a nervous chuckle. "It was just an electrical short-out."

At that moment, a cloud of thick, choking gas poured out of the central podium. Ted Torrance, the Genius of Gotham, began coughing and gasping, then whimpering, pleading, shrieking, screaming. The audience erupted in chaos as a heavy blanket of fog filled the studio.

"No, please! Pleeeease!" the host screamed, falling to his knees. "You don't understand! It's not like that!"

Ted Torrance stumbled over him, still screaming bloody murder and swatting an invisible swarm of bees; an audience member rushed past the camera, screeching about zombies, and the camera suddenly went dark.

"Oh, dear," Alfred said, shaking his head. "Master Bruce isn't going to like this at all. Where can he be? Master Dick?"

But Dick Grayson was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

"You did _WHAT?"_

"Look, boss, he was starting to come around. I didn't want him to cause no trouble or nothing."

Jonathan Crane clenched his fists in an attempt to keep from gassing his henchman on the spot. _Remember, we need him for now. We need him for now. We need him for—_

"**You blathering, incompetent, moronic **_**fool**_**!" **Scarecrow spat. **"You were supposed to get me the moment he woke up, not knock him over the head with a—a teapot!"**

"Please, boss, it was a plate, not a teapot!" the unfortunate thug begged. He was a standard street goon—big, ugly, and not very bright. The man was six feet odd of solid muscle, with enough bulk to take on Killer Croc. He probably wouldn't survive the match, Jonathan noted, but he was certainly stupid enough to try it. At the moment, the thug was shaking uncontrollably, sweat sliding down his face, and looked like he was about to cry. Scarecrow's burlap face split into a malicious grin. The man reeked of fear.

"**Look at you," **Scarecrow hissed, leaning forward and substantially increasing the amplitude of the thug's trembling. **"You miserable, pathetic little rat! I gave you simple instructions, oh so simple! What were they again… hmmmm?"**

The man was shaking so hard he could barely speak. He shifted his gaze from the terrifying Scarecrow to the short Englishman in the far corner of the room, still sipping tea from a delicate china cup.

"B-boss," he pleaded.

The Mad Hatter's eyebrows rose slightly, and he set the cup back on its saucer with a small _clink._

"Recite," he said calmly.

At this moment, the bound figure of Bruce Wayne uttered a low groan, distracting both villains. Scarecrow shot a quick glance at his hostage and slowly turned back to the henchman.

"Well," Crane remarked. "It looks like you're in luck. The playboy's waking up after all."

"Yeah," the man agreed, obviously relieved.

"Which means," the professor continued, as if he were explaining a problem at the board, "you obviously didn't hit him hard enough. If that had been the Batman…"

The thug froze.

"I… I only had a plate," he said.

The stitched mouth on Scarecrow's mask looked as if it were grinning at the luckless man. It was.

"Well, that's very unfortunate," Crane said. **"We'll have to find some way to make you… stronger."**

In the corner, Jervis Tetch perked up. The henchman shot him a terrified glance and threw himself in front of the Scarecrow's lanky frame.

"No! Please, no! Don't card me! Don't do it! You win! Anything you want, just please don't!"

"**What's the matter? Are you… scared?" **Scarecrow sneered. _Interesting, _Crane noted. _A variation on trypanophobia and mono— _

"PLEASE!" the thug blubbered. Scarecrow cackled.

"**Oh, yes, scream and cry! Get down on your knees and beg, plead for mercy! I am the Master of Fear, Lord of Despair, the God of Terror!"**

"No! NO, pl—"

The unfortunate thug's pleas were cut off as the Mad Hatter gently slipped a 10/6 card above his ear.

"Why must you do that every time?" he frowned at his fellow Rogue. "He's far much more useful without it, you know."

Scarecrow only grinned jaggedly.

"**Oranges and lemons, oranges and lemons," **he rasped.

Tetch was about to press the matter when it occurred to him that he now had a new character for his Wonderland. A wide grin split the Englishman's face, and he turned to his new puppet and clapped his hands.

"Now we shall have some fun!" he crowed. "You must be… you _must _be! Jonathan, have we got a wig? We must get one, and ah—the drapes! They'll do spendidly!"

It was Crane's turn to frown at his companion.

"How should I know what we've got? The tea house was your idea!" he snapped. "But we shall need those drapes—Hatter!"

It was no use. The Mad Hatter was already taking down the curtains, chattering away excitedly to the carded henchman all the while, and didn't seem to hear Scarecrow's last words. Scarecrow shook his head with disgust. Hatter was in Wonderland again. Not that he was surprised. Their last heist together had culminated in a spectacular automobile accident after Tetch thought he saw the White Rabbit, carded the getaway driver, and ordered him to drive "down the rabbit hole." On the other hand, they _had_ both walked away from the wreck, and the Mad Hatter's incoherent babblings had distracted Batman long enough for Scarecrow to douse him liberally with fear toxin and shove the vigilante into the Gotham Reservoir… after which the Mad Hatter very suddenly came back to reality and offered to treat Scarecrow to a cup of tea.

Watching the short supervillian merrily singing—if you could call that singing—as he dressed the King of Hearts, Crane shook his head. Jervis Tetch was clearly insane. **That's rather the pot calling the kettle black, **sniggered Scarecrow.

"I am not insane!" Crane snapped indignantly. "I am a genius!"

"Aren't we all," a familiar voice said behind him. Jonathan Crane spun around to see the Riddler advancing triumphantly, dressed in a spotless green suit and matching bowler hat and flanked by three burly henchmen. All the thugs, Crane noted, sported purple question mark tattoos on their knuckles; these were more than just hired muscle.

"Riddler," Crane greeted him. "And how was the show?"

"Oh, it went off without a hitch," the Riddler replied carelessly. "As usual."

Scarecrow gritted his teeth.

"**Do you have the transportation?" **he demanded.

"Of course," the Riddler sighed, examining his fingernails. "I believe the real question is: do you have the prisoner?"

"**Of course I have—"**

"Oh really? Better look again, Scarecrow."

The Scarecrow spun around. The chair that had held Bruce Wayne was tipped on its side, the thick rope lying in loose coils around it. But the prisoner was nowhere in sight.


	5. Chapter 5

Batman moaned.

Pain surged through his body. His head pounded, each throb of pain enough to make him wish he'd listened to Alfred and stayed home… the Kevlar in the cowl didn't seem to have done anything at all. Batman tried to remember who had hit him… Rhino? Killer Croc? No, wait, Killer Croc hadn't been outside Arkham for six months, and Rhino… the vigilante slowly opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn't. The room was dim, but even the low amount of light felt like an iron spike had been driven into his skull. Voices floated past him, vaguely familiar.

"…_miserable, pathetic little rat!... instructions… oh so simple! What were they…"_

"_B-boss…"_

And then, so close to him it physically hurt, a clear, British voice rang out:

"Recite."

Batman moaned again. The Mad Hatter. He'd been captured by the Mad Hatter. He closed his eyes again, feeling miserable. His mouth was extremely dry, his throat parched, and every fiber of his body seemed to be in pain. Then it hit him.

He had no mask on.

Batman's heart rate suddenly shot through the roof. He tried to lift his hand and found it firmly pinned to his side. Oh, no. No, no, no.

"…_looks like you're in luck. The playboy's waking up after all."_

Wait. Playboy? Batman breathed a low sigh of relief. So Bruce Wayne had been captured, not Batman. He almost chuckled at the absurdity of it. The pain in his head was abating—not disappearing, but lessening from 'rampaging rhinoceros' to 'jackhammer in the skull'. The Dark Knight reopened his eyes and took stock of his surroundings.

The room was rather small, and very dim. A standard office desk stood a few feet away from him, piled high with paperwork and small china figurines. A few framed forms—diplomas? Licenses?— hung on the wall behind the desk, along with several elaborate hats, old-time photographs, and a painted china plate. The wallpaper was a delicate lilac shade with a gold rose print—Batman shook his head. Only the Mad Hatter… speaking of which, the villain himself was seated less than four feet away to Batman's left. The Hatter's coat was inky wool, his trousers ridiculously checked, his shoes—Batman felt sure Alfred would call them spats—shined to the point of gleaming. And, of course, there was the hat. The tremendously oversized hat was a new one, a gleaming tower of ebony silk with a deep crimson ribbon encircling the pipe and a four-inch-high card reading _In this style 10/6._The British villain noticed Bruce looking at him and gave him a wide, toothy grin and a little wave. Batman scowled and was about to growl out an accusation when he remembered. He was _Bruce Wayne, _not Batman.

The Hatter shrugged at Bruce and went back to watching… wait. He was watching something behind Bruce.

"OH, YES, SCREAM AND CRY! DOWN ON YOUR KNEES AND BEG, PLEAD FOR MERCY! I AM THE MASTER OF FEAR, THE LORD OF DESPAIR, THE GOD OF TERROR!"

Oh, wonderful. Batman groaned and let his aching head droop forward. He remembered now. He'd been coming out of a shop, talking to that little reporter and being Bruce Wayne in public when the Scarecrow had shown up and sprayed him with something. Batman could rule out fear gas, since he wasn't hallucinating flaming skulls or disapproving fathers and his heart wasn't pounding out of his chest just yet. But if he hadn't been gassed with fear toxin… what was the wily Professor Crane up to?

Suddenly, Jervis Tetch stood up. Carefully setting his tea cup on the chair behind him, he took a 10/6 card out of his pocket and crept behind Batman. The vigilante held his breath.

"No! NO, pl—"

So Scarecrow and Hatter had someone else in here. Batman growled under his breath and strained against the ropes that held him, but he had literally been swathed in strong nylon, yards and yards of it wrapped around him until he almost looked like a nylon mummy. He strongly suspected Tetch had tied him up.

"Why must you do that every time?" Tetch's voice said from behind him. "He's far more useful without it, you know."

"Oranges and lemons, oranges and lemons," came the Scarecrow's low rasp.

There was a moment of silence, and then the Mad Hatter spoke again, this time much happier.

"Now we shall have some fun! You must be… you _must _be! Jonathan, have we got a wig? We must get one, and – ah, the drapes!"

"How should I know what we've got?" the Scarecrow replied. "The tea house was your idea! But we shall need those drapes—Hatter!"

Batman grunted and strained again. Leave it to the Mad Hatter to take refuge in a tea house. There was a long pause, during which the only sound was Tetch's off-key singing.

"…_there's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail! See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance…"_

Without warning, the Mad Hatter's face appeared inches away from Batman's, stretching into an even wider grin.

"_They are waiting on the shingle…" _the British villain sang softly. _"…will you come and join the dance?"_

Batman had time for one fleeting thought _no_ before the whole word went dark.


	6. Chapter 6

The McManus Broadcasting Center was not a quiet place even on a good day. Sprawled haphazardly between the edge of the industrial district and one of Wayne Enterprise's many corporate skyscrapers, it enjoyed few locational benefits and fewer monetary benefits. The MMBC was constantly on the brink of bankruptcy; the vast majority of its shows aired at odd hours and obscure channels, and for a good reason. No one really wanted to see the fourth installment of a made-for-TV movie, a science fiction show with no special effects, or a romantic comedy series with B-list actors. It would have been much easier for everyone concerned if the owner, a certain Harold McManus, had consented to airing more "adult" material. The pornographic audience was a large one, and, like so many other struggling broadcasting companies, the MMBC could have easily catered to it. But Harold McManus was staunch, old-school moralist of the first order; the actresses in his shows would never have to worry about being arrested for exposure, indecent or otherwise. The actors were expected to keep their personal lives out of the studio, drug scenes were taboo in any venue, and it was only with great persuasion on the part of McManus' shrewd and diplomatic daughter that smoking and drinking were permitted outside the cop dramas.

Thus, when an enterprising young show host came along with a genuinely good concept, one that would appeal both appeal to Gotham's masses and adhere to Mr. McManus' stringent moral guidelines, it was like a dream come true for many in the low building. The underpaid cameramen pocketed three weeks' pay in a single day; the gaffers and grips found new inspiration in their work; even the janitors whistled as they pushed their brooms down the well-worn hallways. New sweaters, shoes, and watches began popping up all over the studios, and there was even talk of Arnold Lion, star of the _Terror in the Night _series, signing a deal with one of the soap operas. "Guess and Go Gotham" was the lifeblood of McManus Broadcasting Center.

So when word reached Harold McManus that his studio had been invaded—well, not exactly invaded, but _hijacked _and flooded with fear-inducing gas on live television, he was not a happy man. The elderly man fumed to himself as he strode down the hallway to the ruined set, his stiff white moustache fairly bristling with outrage.

"… darn police… can't even keep a petty little prankster out of my… what's the world coming to, anyway?"

Beside him, his daughter Patricia nodded sympathetically and patted his arm.

"Don't worry, Dad," she said. "I called the GPD and they said they're sending one of their top detectives down to investigate."

"Well, by golly, they'd better," grumbled Mr. McManus. "It's bad enough that _all this_…" he gestured broadly, almost hitting his daughter, "happened, but the fact that it was live on television…" He shook his head in disgust. "What's this world coming to, anyway?"

"I don't know, Dad," Patricia sighed, rubbing his forearm. "I don't know."

They turned the corner and reached the door to set twelve. The studio was in chaos. Cameras had fallen and shattered, the treadmills were all tipped on their sides, the chairs were in disarray, and the podiums were nowhere in sight. A terrified audience member had clawed at the taut vinyl screen, and a large rip split the Guess and Go logo in two; the huge TV screens behind the contestants had fared no better, and were riddled with cracks and dents were hysterical people had fought off invisible monsters. The EMTs had taken most of the affected to the hospital, but a few whimpering victims were still being carted off on gurneys.

"Sweet Mary above," Mr. McManus gasped, his face paling as he took in the damage. "Who _did _this?" His anger returned, and the blood rushed back to his head. "Who did this? Who is responsible? I'll see him in court! I'll sue the pants off him! I'll—"

"Aw, quiet down," a gruff voice snorted behind him. "You ain't gonna do none of that."

Mr. McManus whirled around to see a hulking figure in a long trenchcoat cradling a box of doughnuts.

"Who are you?" he barked.

The big man wearily reached inside a pocket and pulled out a badge, flipping it open casually.

"Harvey Bullock, Special Crimes," he said. "Who are you, by the way?"

"I am Harold McManus, and I happen to own this building?" the white-haired man snapped, pulling himself up to his full height.

"Right. Well, Mr. McManus, this is a crime scene, so I'm gonna have to ask you to step outside."

Mr. McManus' face turned crimson.

"WHAT? Why you little—"

"Dad, remember your blood pressure!" Patricia intervened quickly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bullock. We've had a long day."

"Tell me about it," Bullock grumbled. "Hey, you! Wilkes! What've you got there?"

Officer Wilkes straightened up from where he had been examining one of the fallen cameras.

"I'm not sure, sir. This was attached to the camera."

He held up a clear evidence bag containing small metal box with a long strip of wires attached to it. It had been painted light green and sported a flamboyant purple question mark.

"It looks like some sort of scrambler, sir," he said respectfully. "I saw something like this when I—"

"It is a scrambler," said a voice behind them.

They all turned to see Robin lounging against the door, a larger, similar box in one hand.

"I found this plugged into your central computer," he said calmly. "This is clearly the work of the Riddler."

"Oh, ya think?" Bullock snapped. "Give me that! That's official police evidence!"

Robin easily held the gadget out of reach.

"No, it's not. You didn't find it, remember? Besides, I can analyze it much faster with the computer."

"Oh yeah, the famous Bat-computer!" Bullock laughed, taking a doughnut out of the box and biting into it. "It's so smart, I'm surprised you and Bats don't know about crimes before they happen!"

Robin ignored the jab.

"I need to interview Ted Torrance," he said.

"Hah! Well, that's gonna be real hard, cause—"

"He's missing," Robin finished.

Bullock looked surprised.

"How'd you know?"

"It was just a guess, but you confirmed it," Robin said, and turned to go.

"Now see here," Mr. McManus began, but Bullock interrupted him.

"Look, Pops, this is a crime scene. Ya know that tape you crossed, the one that says 'Do Not Cross' about a million times on it? I'm gonna have to ask you to go back behind it and not come back in."

"Now look here!" McManus roared. "I own this building and every set in it! This is my property!"

"Not right now it ain't. This is my crime scene, and either you can get out or get thrown out. Take your choice." The burly detective turned away as McManus sputtered in rage.

"Come on, Dad," Patricia said, guiding him towards the door. "Let's go back to your office."

"Yes, and call a lawyer!" McManus growled. Suddenly, he caught sight of Robin. "Wait a minute! YOU! This is all your fault!" he bellowed.

Robin turned calmly.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Of all the irresponsible… my studio has been invaded—INVADED—by a criminal lunatic, and you stand by and do nothing! Where were you when the set was being destroyed? Where were you when the cameras were smashed and the star was kidnapped and the studio was—was destroyed? The whole audience was flooded with fear gas, and you didn't do a damn thing!"

"Father!" Patricia exclaimed, but Harold McManus was not done.

"This whole thing is your fault! Yours and that giant overgrown bat's! Where is he, anyway?"

Robin sighed.

"I wish I knew," he said.

Back in the Batmobile, Robin breathed a long sigh of relief.

"Whew. When Bruce said this job wasn't for the faint of heart, he wasn't kidding," he said.

The video intercom suddenly flickered to life, and Alfred's face appeared on the screen.

"Any sign of Master Bruce?" he asked anxiously.

Robin shook his head.

"Sorry, Alfred. I checked the TV studio and found this." He held up the question mark box. "It's a frequency scrambler. It was attached to the computer mainframe. Riddler had a smaller unit on one of the set cameras. He also kidnapped the show's star."

"That genius fellow?"

"Yeah. I'm betting it was because of Torrance's nickname. 'The Genius of Gotham?' That had to set Riddler off." Dick frowned. "But there's one thing I don't get. The Riddler usually leaves some sort of… well, riddle at the crime scene. Or a puzzle, or a question…"

"There was nothing there?"

"Well, I didn't get a chance to really examine the scene very closely," Robin admitted. "Bullock was there, and the show owner. Man, was he mad. He kept saying it was all our faults, that we weren't there to stop it."

"Oh dear," Alfred sighed. "Well, I suppose it's a good thing Master Bruce wasn't there."

"Yeah…" Robin shook his head. "Do you have the tape of the show yet?"

"We're experiencing some trouble with the DVR," Alfred said sheepishly. "I… I will have it within the hour. Just give me time."

"All right. The studio was flooded with fear gas… the lack of a real riddle makes me wonder if the Scarecrow might not be ripping off the Riddler's style."

"Or perhaps they've teamed up," suggested Alfred.

"With my luck, I wouldn't be surprised. Computer, locate the Riddler."

"Locating Rogue: The Riddler," the computer's voice repeated. "Location known. Arkham Asylum, Block C, Cell 15."

"Locate the Scarecrow."

"Locating Rogue: The Scarecrow. Location known. Arkham Asylum, Block C, Cell 17."

"Do you really think both Rogues will be locked up?" Alfred asked.

"I don't know. But the first step is to make sure they're both _not _at Arkham, and check the cells for clues. When Bruce shows up, tell him I'm headed for Arkham."

"Right away, Master Dick."

The screen went blank. Robin sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Batman, where are you?"

"Locating: Batman." the computer reported. "Location not found. Please try again."


	7. Chapter 7

The Scarecrow stared at the pile of loose ropes. Jervis had tied the billionaire up with a ridiculous amount of nylon—there was no way the playboy could have got loose on his own. Was there? He rubbed his forehead. The Riddler smirked, obviously enjoying his fellow Rogue's bewilderment.

"Well, Jonathan?" he prodded.

"**Don't call me that," **Scarecrow snapped. **"I am the Master of Fear!"**

"But not of keeping hostages," the Riddler said snidely. "And this is such an easy puzzle! Look, I'll give you a hint: the ropes were cut."

_With an axe, no doubt, _Crane thought grimly.

"Are you… eh… sure of your henchmen's loyalty?" the Riddler continued.

It was Scarecrow's turn to feel smug. _Imbecile, _he thought with satisfaction. _Amazing how his ego exposes his catelogophobia._

"**Don't be stupid," **Scarecrow hissed, grinning again. **"I don't keep henchmen. Only… test subjects."**

"And I know where Bruce Wayne is," Jonathan Crane finished, "even if you don't."

The Riddler scowled.

"Well, with the henchmen clue, it's fairly obvious," he snorted. "I wish you'd make your riddles a little harder, Scarecrow."

"**If I thought you were capable of solving them, I would," **Scarecrow retorted.

Riddler's face turned ugly.

"What did you say?" he said, his voice low and dangerous. The henchmen on either side of him sensed trouble and moved forward about half a step.

Scarecrow smiled brilliantly at them, crossed his arms, and said, very softly, **"Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements. You owe me **_**five farthings**_**, say the bells of St. Martin's!" **By this time, the henchmen were fidgeting uneasily. One took a half step back. Scarecrow grinned even wider and turned to Riddler, his eyes gleaming. **"**_**When will you pay me?" **_he rasped out slowly.

Riddler dropped his eyes and shrank back. He raised his head and glared at the ragged figure towering over him.

"That's not a riddle," he snapped. "It sounds more like a threat."

On cue, the henchmen gulped, stepped forward, and reached for the bony professor, who snarled at them through the burlap mask.

"I thought as much," a clipped voice interrupted from the doorway. "And if you're not good directly, I'll put you through into Looking-Glass House."

The villains turned to see Jervis Tetch standing in the doorway, frowning at them and holding up a handful of 10/6 cards. The two henchmen beat a hasty retreat, actually stepping behind their irritated boss. Jonathan Crane smiled and relaxed against the wall, deliberately casual.

"Well, Jervis," he said conversationally, "where is Bruce Wayne?"

The Mad Hatter's face broke into a wide, mad grin. The Riddler shuddered. Much as he detested Scarecrow and his infuriating nursery rhymes, he found himself wishing he had gone into partnership with Crane alone. At least Crane made _sense_ sometimes.

"But when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it," he explained, speaking as if it was all perfectly logical.

Jonathan Crane nodded.

"Well, get him and the other two back here. We're moving out."

"Eight squares to go," Tetch nodded, and left to rally his puppets.

"We have three vans," Riddler said, as the Hatter's blue frock disappeared in the doorway. "I've got a place in the warehouse district, and I've been… setting up."

Scarecrow smiled maliciously.

"**Excellent," **he hissed. **"We'll give the Batman a warm welcome indeed."**

"…and I'll finally stump him, proving once and for all that Edward Nygma is the real genius of Gotham!" Riddler sighed happily.

Jonathan Crane looked up at this.

"Ah, so you did kidnap the star after all? Tell me, did he scream? Did you make him **shriek and writhe in witless fear, screaming out my name in abject terror?"**

"Oh, yes," Riddler said. "You… er… would have been proud."

"**You see, Nygma," **Scarecrow rasped, **"fear is the ultimate weapon. Even the mind is useless, powerless within its grip."**

"Only if the mind is stupid enough to see it coming and not take basic precautions," the Riddler sniffed. He took out a green, plastic gas mask and put it on. "I, for instance, would never be taken off-guard by fear."

"**Hmmm," **Scarecrow murmured. **"But you assume that fear comes from the outside. Surely you, a man of **_**learning,**_** know that fear resides in the heart of every man? The toxin only brings out what is already there."**

"True," Riddler retorted, "but if fear resides in everyone's heart, as you say, then you must also—"

"Hallo, chaps," interrupted Jervis Tetch suddenly. "What are you playing at?"

Neither villain said anything.

"Oh, it's the my-gimmick-is-bigger-than-your-gimmick game!" the Mad Hatter said brightly. "Of course you agree to have a battle?"

"Uh… what?" the Riddler said, confused.

"We don't have time for that," Crane said smoothly. "Where is—oh, here he is. Hmmm." He examined the Hatter's newest minion with a skeptical eye. "Well, I must say, you certainly are thorough."

The Mad Hatter beamed, and introduced his latest puppet with a broad wave of his hand.

"The White Rabbit!"

Edward Nygma had to stifle a laugh. Bruce Wayne's Armani suit coat had disappeared, replaced by a stiff black vest with a prominent gold watch dangling from a pocket. He clutched a rolled-up piece of paper in one hand and a prop trumpet in the other. But what really pulled the costume together were the ears. Perched atop Wayne's perfectly coiffed curls was a white headband with fluffy rabbit ears attached, the sort used in a playgirl's bunny costume. The pompous billionaire had finally gotten his comeuppance.

"Oh dear… oh dear… I shall be… too late…" Wayne muttered thickly, staring blankly at the far wall.

It was too much for the Riddler, who collapsed into sniggers.

"**Hatter,"** Scarecrow cackled, his thin frame shaking with glee, **"You're a genius."**

And for once, Edward Nygma agreed.


	8. Chapter 8

The McManus Broadcasting Center was not a quiet place even on a good day. Sprawled haphazardly between the edge of the industrial district and one of Wayne Enterprise's many corporate skyscrapers, it enjoyed few locational benefits and fewer monetary benefits. The MMBC was constantly on the brink of bankruptcy; the vast majority of its shows aired at odd hours and obscure channels, and for a good reason. No one really wanted to see the fourth installment of a made-for-TV movie, a science fiction show with no special effects, or a romantic comedy series with B-list actors. It would have been much easier for everyone concerned if the owner, a certain Harold McManus, had consented to airing more "adult" material. The pornographic audience was a large one, and, like so many other struggling broadcasting companies, the MMBC could have easily catered to it. But Harold McManus was staunch, old-school moralist of the first order; the actresses in his shows would never have to worry about being arrested for exposure, indecent or otherwise. The actors were expected to keep their personal lives out of the studio, drug scenes were taboo in any venue, and it was only with great persuasion on the part of McManus' shrewd and diplomatic daughter that smoking and drinking were permitted outside the cop dramas.

Thus, when an enterprising young show host came along with a genuinely good concept, one that would both appeal to Gotham's masses and adhere to Mr. McManus' stringent moral guidelines, it was like a dream come true for many in the low building. The underpaid cameramen pocketed three weeks' pay in a single day; the gaffers and grips found new inspiration in their work; even the janitors whistled as they pushed their brooms down the well-worn hallways. New sweaters, shoes, and watches began popping up all over the studios, and there was even talk of Arnold Lion, star of the _Terror in the Night _series, signing a deal with one of the soap operas. "Guess and Go Gotham" was the lifeblood of McManus Broadcasting Center.

So when word reached Harold McManus that his studio had been invaded—well, not exactly invaded, but _hijacked _and flooded with fear-inducing gas on live television, he was not a happy man. The elderly man fumed to himself as he strode down the hallway to the ruined set, his stiff white moustache fairly bristling with outrage.

"… darn police… can't even keep a petty little prankster out of my… what's the world coming to, anyway?"

Beside him, his daughter Patricia nodded sympathetically and patted his arm.

"Don't worry, Dad," she said. "I called the GPD and they said they're sending one of their top detectives down to investigate."

"Well, by golly, they'd better," grumbled Mr. McManus. "It's bad enough that _all this_…" he gestured broadly, almost hitting his daughter, "happened, but the fact that it was live on television…" He shook his head in disgust. "What's this world coming to, anyway?"

"I don't know, Dad," Patricia sighed, rubbing his forearm. "I don't know."

They turned the corner and reached the door to set twelve. The studio was in chaos. Cameras had fallen and shattered, the treadmills were all tipped on their sides, the chairs were in disarray, and the podiums were nowhere in sight. A terrified audience member had clawed at the taut vinyl screen, and a large rip split the Guess and Go logo in two; the huge TV screens behind the contestants had fared no better, and were riddled with cracks and dents were hysterical people had fought off invisible monsters. The EMTs had taken most of the affected to the hospital, but a few whimpering victims were still being carted off on gurneys.

"Sweet Mary above," Mr. McManus gasped, his face paling as he took in the damage. "Who _did _this?" His anger returned, and the blood rushed back to his head. "Who did this? Who is responsible? I'll see him in court! I'll sue the pants off him! I'll—"

"Aw, quiet down," a gruff voice snorted behind him. "You ain't gonna do none of that."

Mr. McManus whirled around to see a hulking figure in a long trenchcoat cradling a box of doughnuts.

"Who are you?" he barked.

The big man wearily reached inside a pocket and pulled out a badge, flipping it open casually.

"Harvey Bullock, Special Crimes," he said. "Who are you, by the way?"

"I am Harold McManus, and I happen to own this building!" the white-haired man snapped, pulling himself up to his full height.

"Right. Well, Mr. McManus, this is a crime scene, so I'm gonna have to ask you to step outside."

Mr. McManus' face turned crimson.

"WHAT? Why you little—"

"Dad, remember your blood pressure!" Patricia intervened quickly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bullock. We've had a long day."

"Tell me about it," Bullock grumbled. "Hey, you! Wilkes! What've you got there?"

Officer Wilkes straightened up from where he had been examining one of the fallen cameras.

"I'm not sure, sir. This was attached to the camera."

He held up a clear evidence bag containing small metal box with a long strip of wires attached to it. It had been painted light green and sported a flamboyant purple question mark.

"It looks like some sort of scrambler, sir," he said respectfully. "I saw something like this when I—"

"It is a scrambler," said a voice behind them.

They all turned to see Robin lounging against the door, a larger, similar box in one hand.

"I found this plugged into your central computer," he said calmly. "This is clearly the work of the Riddler."

"Oh, ya think?" Bullock snapped. "Give me that! That's official police evidence!"

Robin easily held the gadget out of reach.

"No, it's not. You didn't find it, remember? Besides, I can analyze it much faster with the computer."

"Oh yeah, the famous Bat-computer!" Bullock laughed, taking a doughnut out of the box and biting into it. "It's so smart, I'm surprised you and Bats don't know about crimes before they happen!"

Robin ignored the jab.

"I need to interview Ted Torrance," he said.

"Hah! Well, that's gonna be real hard, cause—"

"He's missing," Robin finished.

Bullock looked surprised.

"How'd you know?"

"It was just a guess, but you confirmed it," Robin said, and turned to go.

"Now see here," Mr. McManus began, but Bullock interrupted him.

"Look, Pops, this is a crime scene. Ya know that tape you crossed, the one that says 'Do Not Cross' about a million times on it? I'm gonna have to ask you to go back behind it and not come back in."

"Now look here!" McManus roared. "I own this building and every set in it! This is my property!"

"Not right now it ain't. This is my crime scene, and either you can get out or get thrown out. Take your choice." The burly detective turned away as McManus sputtered in rage.

"Come on, Dad," Patricia said, guiding him towards the door. "Let's go back to your office."

"Yes, and call a lawyer!" McManus growled. Suddenly, he caught sight of Robin. "Wait a minute! YOU! This is all your fault!" he bellowed.

Robin turned calmly.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Of all the irresponsible… my studio has been invaded—INVADED—by a criminal lunatic, and you stand by and do nothing! Where were you when the set was being destroyed? Where were you when the cameras were smashed and the star was kidnapped and the studio was—was destroyed? The whole audience was flooded with fear gas, and you didn't do a damn thing!"

"Father!" Patricia exclaimed, but Harold McManus was not done.

"This whole thing is your fault! Yours and that giant overgrown bat's! Where is he, anyway?"

Robin sighed.

"I wish I knew," he said.

Back in the Batmobile, Robin breathed a long sigh of relief.

"Whew. When Bruce said this job wasn't for the faint of heart, he wasn't kidding," he said.

The video intercom suddenly flickered to life, and Alfred's face appeared on the screen.

"Any sign of Master Bruce?" he asked anxiously.

Robin shook his head.

"Sorry, Alfred. I checked the TV studio and found this." He held up the question mark box. "It's a frequency scrambler. It was attached to the computer mainframe. Riddler had a smaller unit on one of the set cameras. He also kidnapped the show's star."

"That genius fellow?"

"Yeah. I'm betting it was because of Torrance's nickname. 'The Genius of Gotham?' That had to set Riddler off." Dick frowned. "But there's one thing I don't get. The Riddler usually leaves some sort of… well, riddle at the crime scene. Or a puzzle, or a question…"

"There was nothing there?"

"Well, I didn't get a chance to really examine the scene very closely," Robin admitted. "Bullock was there, and the show owner. Man, was he mad. He kept saying it was all our faults, that we weren't there to stop it."

"Oh dear," Alfred sighed. "Well, I suppose it's a good thing Master Bruce wasn't there."

"Yeah…" Robin shook his head. "Do you have the tape of the show yet?"

"We're experiencing some trouble with the DVR," Alfred said sheepishly. "I… I will have it within the hour. Just give me time."

"All right. The studio was flooded with fear gas… the lack of a real riddle makes me wonder if the Scarecrow might not be ripping off the Riddler's style."

"Or perhaps they've teamed up," suggested Alfred.

"With my luck, I wouldn't be surprised. Computer, locate the Riddler."

"Locating Rogue: The Riddler," the computer's voice repeated. "Location known. Arkham Asylum, Block C, Cell 15."

"Locate the Scarecrow."

"Locating Rogue: The Scarecrow. Location known. Arkham Asylum, Block C, Cell 17."

"Do you really think both Rogues will be locked up?" Alfred asked.

"I don't know. But the first step is to make sure they're both _not _at Arkham, and check the cells for clues. When Bruce shows up, tell him I'm headed for Arkham."

"Right away, Master Dick."

The screen went blank. Robin sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Batman, where are you?"

"Locating: Batman." the computer reported. "Location not found. Please try again."


	9. Chapter 9

"Work, you useless piece of machinery!" Alfred snapped, thumping the DVR. "We paid good money for you, and this shoddy treatment—"

Suddenly, sound began pouring out of the speaker.

"Are you ready to GO? Are you ready to GO? Are you ready to GO? Are you ready to GO?" it sputtered. "Tonight with us we have—tonight with us we have—tonight with us we have—tonight—"

Alfred muttered angrily to himself as he pulled the box out and adjusted the connection.

"—Laura Williams, coming straight—coming straight—shsxctschthshhh—from the Gothashshsxth—Production Plant; Jeffery Mills—shfsshfxsfhstch—at Gotham High School—and the man who needs no introduction, Ted Torrance!"

"That ought to do it," Alfred said grimly, shoving the box back onto the shelf. "Now, you useless bundle of circuits, let's see what clues our riddling friend left us."

The handsome blond star walked on the stage to thunderous applause and cheers; behind him, the other two contestants trailed along as the audience clapped politely. Alfred shook his head in mild disgust. So much for a fair and impartial audience. The theme music swelled to a climax, and the smiling show host entered, nodding and waving to the audience and contestants.

"Are you ready to GO?" he asked the audience. "Tonight with us we have Laura Williams, coming straight from the Gothamcorp Steel Production Plant; Jeffrey Mills, biology teacher at Gotham High School; and, the man who needs no introduction… Ted Torrance!"

The audience erupted into cheers and applause. Alfred paused the tape and carefully examined the screen. No hidden message, no suspicious-looking figure in the background… he pressed play and watched as the host gestured dramatically to the screen.

"Well, are we ready? Here's round one, Worthy Wording! There will be four lines of blank spaces, which will slowly fill with letters as the clock ticks. You only have five minutes, and the spaces will not fill completely at the end of this time! The first person to solve the puzzle hits the STOP button, the bell rings, they yell out the answer, and you will get… one thousand dollars! Are there any questions? No? Well, hang on to your hats, ladies and gents, because here… we… GO!"

Immediately, all three treadmills started rolling, and the contestants began jogging. Behind them, the screens flashed wildly and cut to a series of empty spaces. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ?

Alfred paused the tape again and jotted down the number of spaces. They were bunched into groups; first three spaces, then two, then one, then five spaces, then four, then one, then seven spaces and finally four. Alfred wrote down the numbers 3 2 1 5 4 1 7 4 and frowned. A phone number, perhaps? Or maybe an address of some kind… the butler scribbled a note to check the address of the studio and pressed play.

The first four letters filled in, making the puzzle read:

W _ _, _ _, A, _ _ _ _ N, _ _ _ _ , _, _ _ _ _ _ _ _, _ E _ _ ?

Alfred played the tape forward again, studying every inch of the screen. There was no hidden shape or letter in the background, no villainous face smirking in the audience, really nothing out of the ordinary. The letters filled in slowly and in seemingly random order, until the show's star made his guess.

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" Alfred muttered, scribbling it down. It certainly seemed to fit the spaces. But after a few seconds, the buzzer screeched and the treadmills started again. The answer had been wrong. The letters also resumed filling in, until at the very end, the puzzle read:

W _ _ I S A R _ V E N _ I K E A _ R I T I _ G D E _ K?

Alfred shook his head. That had to be the answer.

Wait.

The answer.

Alfred groaned. Of course. The word game only spelled out the riddle; Ted Torrance had guessed the riddle, but not the answer.

"But there is no answer," Alfred said aloud. "Lewis Carroll said so himself-" Alfred paused. "Or does he mean... the Mad Hatter? Well, it would make sense, in a way. If Scarecrow and Riddler have teamed up, there's really no reason why the Mad Hatter shouldn't have as well. Yes... the Riddler sabotages a trivia show, leaves a Wonderland riddle, and gasses the audience with fear toxin."

But there was something else nagging at the back of Alfred's mind. He shook his head, dissatisfied, and rewound the tape to the beginning of the riddle. The screen flashed in a wild strobe effect. Alfred paused it and slowed the recording down to .5X speed. The screen flashed white, then yellow, then blue... then green with a purple question mark. Then it flashed white again, yellow, blue... green with a purple question mark. Then the flashing stopped and the riddle spaces appeared

The spaces remained empty for a few seconds; then four of them turned yellow and flashed to reveal the letter.

W _ _ _ _ A _ _ _ _ N _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ E _ _?

"Wane?" Alfred said aloud. Suddenly, it hit him. "No! Not wane. _Wayne."_


	10. Chapter 10

Arnold Wesker stared at the ground, blinking nervously under the bright fluorescent lights of the visitor's room. The balding, middle-aged man was the picture of meekness, his small eyes blinking timidly from behind thick glasses as he waited for the orderlies to release his handcuffs.

"Er… er… why am I here?" he ventured, as one of the men unlocked his cuffs and led him to a chair next to a telephone and a clear plastic window. "I haven't done anything wrong…"

"Doc's orders," the man said gruffly. "There's someone who wants to talk with you."

Arnold's face went chalk white.

"Is it Mr. Scarface? He, he hasn't been making trouble, has he? He's very particular about th-things, you know…"

"Relax," the other orderly grunted. "It's Robin."

"Oh," Wesker said, with a sigh of relief. Then the worry came back into his face. "He… he doesn't think _I've _done anything, does he?"

"Why don't you ask him?" the first orderly said, pointing at the glass.

Wesker looked up to see Robin just sitting down on the other side of the window. Quickly, he picked up the telephone and stammered into the speaker.

"H-hello?"

"Hello, Wesker," Robin said, almost amiably.

"W-what's this all about? I, I haven't done anything, I promise!"

"I know you haven't. I just wanted to ask you some questions," Robin said calmly, "you know, about your therapy group?"

"Oh," Wesker sighed, relaxing in the chair. "Well, I—I don't go to those very often. It's actually for Mr. Scarface, but he makes me come along every time… well, almost every time," he finished sadly.

Robin looked confused.

"Where is Mr. Scarface?"

Wesker looked down.

"He got into a fight," he admitted. "W-with Mr. Zeus. I tried to stop him, but…" his voice trailed off. "They put him in solitary, I think. H-he's been yelling at Mr. Dent all day."

"Ah," Robin said. "Tell me, did Crane or Nygma ever talk about… well, what they would do when they got out in therapy?"

"Oh, yes," Arnold nodded. "Dr. Crane was always talking about it. H-he was going to get his license back and move somewhere far, far away and start over."

"What about Nygma?"

Arnold hesitated.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Mr. Nygma was always boasting about how smart he was. I guess he really is a genius, though. He stumped Mr. Scarface…"

"Did they ever talk about any hideouts they had?" Robin wanted to know.

"Well, yes," Arnold said slowly. "A-after Mr. Scarface got put into solitary, they started arguing about t-turf. I wasn't supposed to hear it, but… Mr. Nygma said h-he had a really good place to hide, and Mr. Scarface starting yelling that it was on his turf."

Robin's mind was racing. Putting the telephone down, he walked over to the two-way glass and knocked gently. After a few minutes, Dr. Bartholomew came back into the room.

"Would it be possible to get Mr. Scarface in here for a few minutes?" Robin asked quietly.

Dr. Bartholomew looked uncomfortable.

"You'd have to ask Dr. Leland," he said. "She's in charge of Wesker's treatment, and she had Scarface removed…"

"I'm not asking you to return it to him," Robin said. "Just bring Scarface in for a few minutes."

Dr. Bartholomew thought about it for a few seconds.

"I don't see why not," he said finally.

On the other side of the glass, Arnold Wesker fidgeted nervously. He couldn't hear what Robin and Dr. Bartholomew were discussing, but he had a strong sense that it was about him. He was about to knock on the glass and ask Robin about it when the door opened, and an orderly came in carrying…

"Mr. Scarface!"Wesker exclaimed.

The wooden puppet stared lifelessly off into space, but the voice that came from it was anything but lifeless.

"There you are, Dummy! What's going on here? I've geen locked up for nearly a week!"

"Oh yes, Mr. Scarface," Arnold said hastily, taking the dummy from the orderly and placing his hand in its back. "You started a fight."

"Started a fight, ha! I don't start fights, I finish 'em," Scarface growled. "What are we doin' here, anyway?"

"Er, er, Robin's been asking questions," Arnold Wesker explained quickly.

The dummy's glass eyes slowly shifted from the Ventriloquist to the masked figure on the other side of the glass. Wesker carefully picked up the phone and held it to Scarface's mouth.

"Well, well, if it ain't the Goy Wonder," the puppet sneered. "Where's Gatman?"

Robin clenched his teeth.

"That's none of your concern, Scarface," he said. "I just want to ask some questions."

"Ask away. Gut I ain't promisin' no answers."

"Where's Nygma's newest hideout?" Robin demanded.

"Nygma's hideout! Youse got it all wrong!" Scarface exploded. "Puzzle Man's in my hideout, the little rat! When I get that little creep, we're going fer a ride."

"Mr. Scarface!" Arnold exclaimed.

"Shut up, Dummy! Who asked you, huh?" the dummy snapped. "An' as fer you, Roggin, youse can just go goil yourself, cause I ain't talkin'."

"No? That's too bad, then," Robin said. "I guess I'll have to leave the Riddler inside your hideout for a few more weeks then… let him find all your stashes of guns and spend all your money… he's probably already painted it green, you know."

"I'll kill him," snarled Scarface. "I'll greak his neck!"

"No, Mr. Scarface!" Arnold exclaimed, horrified. "That would be murder!"

"Course it would!" growled the puppet. "Serves 'im right, too!"

"But… if you tell Robin where Nygma's hiding, he'll go to jail," Wesker said.

"Naw, he won't. He'll end up gack here. And then Gatman will find our best hideout. You'd getter leave the thinkin' ta me, Dummy."


	11. Chapter 11

The three vans bounced unevenly across the pothole-studded pavement as they wound their way through the narrow streets of Gotham's warehouse district. Overhead, a baleful crescent moon stared down at them, throwing the numerous alleys and crooked doorways into deep shadow and dropping cold silver into the puddles. The streets were never completely deserted; here and there, a homeless drifter sat huddled in the shadows, or a man with a bulgy pocket walked carelessly up and in front of a door, cigar smoke leaving a warm smudge on the icy winter air. Few windows here had lights; it was a sign of life, and that inevitably attracted the city's predators.

The narrow streets twisted in and around the warehouses like the pathways of a derelict maze. No doubt that was what had attracted him, the Puzzle Master, the genius behind a similarly twisted labyrinth, to this particular warehouse. It was hedged in on all sides by crooked little buildings, offshoots and additions of other warehouses and narrow, broken-windowed structures where junkies retreated to find Wonderland. To the casual observer, Warehouse 32 was inaccessible from any road. It took a patient and sharp-eyed driver to spot the narrow entrance in a neighboring warehouse's loading zone, drive around the rotting Dumpsters, and finally take a seemingly dead end into a shadowy alley to emerge in front of the abandoned warehouse.

But the Riddler's thugs knew exactly where to go. They maneuvered their way through the labyrinthine alleys with relative ease, the van headlights dimmed to avoid suspicion. Inside the first van, Edward Nygma smirked to himself as he rehearsed his puzzle in his mind.

"You know, Clarence—you are Clarence, aren't you?" he said to the burly man sitting next to him.

"Joe," the thug grunted.

"Oh, well, it's all the same," Riddler said with a wave of his hand. "This time, it's really going to work. I can feel it."

"Uh, no hard feelings, boss," the man said, "but didn't you already try the death trap maze thing? I mean, I just think—"

"_You _think?" scoffed the Riddler. "That's a good one! That useless lump of grey matter you call a brain hasn't had a thought in the last ten years, and if it did, it would light up like downtown Vegas! No," he sighed, "you can't presume to think. But it's true, Batman did get lucky and solve my Labyrinth last time we met. This time, however…" he chuckled darkly. "Well, this time it will be a game of foresight. As I told that arrogant nitwit the Scarecrow, true genius lies in predicting what is to come, and adjusting accordingly."

"Uh… what?"

The Riddler heaved a long sigh of exasperation.

"Never mind."

About ten feet behind him, the driver of the second van was sweating profusely and earnestly wishing that Riddler would tell his driver to hurry up so they could get there already and get out already. The Riddler's three bodyguards were riding with their boss, leaving the second driver alone in the van with his lanky passenger.

Jonathan Crane leaned against the passenger's door, his arms crossed, and stared at the driver. It was hard to tell the mad professor's expression under the burlap mask, but the thug got the distinct feeling the Scarecrow was smirking at him. He swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the road. Jonathan Crane began humming quietly; it did nothing to soothe the driver's nerves.

"**You're afraid," **the Scarecrow rasped suddenly.

The driver jumped in his seat, causing the van to hit an enormous pothole and send them both almost through the roof. He glanced at Scarecrow, shuddered, and decided against answering. The straw man's eyes roved lazily across the driver's body, taking in every subtle cue, every change in body language.

"**Let's play a game," **Scarecrow suggested. **"We'll make a little bet. If you can make it to the warehouse without screaming, I'll give you half of my take in last week's bank robbery."**

The thug's eyes lit up with greed. Half the Scarecrow's share! Then his eyes flicked to the gaunt figure beside him, and he stiffened.

"And, uh, if I do scream?" he asked.

The Scarecrow's face twisted into a savage grin.

"**Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye," **he sang quietly. **"Four and twenty black**_**birds, **_**baked in a pie…"**

"What… what d'you mean?"

Scarecrow only cackled.

"**Game on."**

"…and that's when I knew it," the Mad Hatter sighed. "She was so beautiful. So perfect. So... _Alice. _It _couldn't _be anyone else, or it would have. You see?"

"Err… sure, buddy," the driver of the third van shrugged. Ever since the short Englishman had entered his vehicle, there hadn't been a moment's silence. Tetch had chatted away happily, first to the owner of the tea house and the carded thug, then to Bruce Wayne, now transformed into the White Rabbit, and finally to the driver.

"They all said it wasn't so," Jervis Tetch sniffed, borrowing a handkerchief from the White Rabbit's vest. "They said she wasn't Alice! That she didn't want to see me! They said…" his brow darkened. "They said I _stalked _her! But it's not true. It's all lies. Lies, lies, lies, LIES!" he shrieked. "It was Batman's fault! I _had _to do it, don't you see, all because of that interfering Bat! Off with his head!"

"Off… with his head," the tea house owner echoed dully from the back of the van, and the driver glanced back nervously to make sure she wasn't referring to him. Fortunately, she remained motionless and stiff, empty eyes staring at some point in the horizon.

"… but that is my history," Tetch sighed. "Mine is a long and sad tale."

"Uhh… yeah, sure," the driver said. "Whatever you say."

"And yet," the Hatter said, with a wide, knowing smile, "I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal."

"Oh?" the driver said. "Um… who's Bill?"

"That's what I said," Jervis Tetch said, with another long sigh. "She had so many, you see, and his was such a small part! But she's far too kind-hearted to turn anyone down, even a Lizard."

"I… see," the driver said. "Hey, you wanna listen to the radio?"

"I can repeat poetry as well as other folks, if it comes to that," the Mad Hatter said reproachfully.

"Oh… yeah… okay," the driver said, giving up. "Whatever floats your boat."

The Mad Hatter beamed.

"_In winter, when the fields are white, I sing this song for your delight…"_

He got no further; a long scream of terror suddenly rang out through the deserted streets.

"Holy #$!" the driver exclaimed, slamming on the brakes. The Mad Hatter was jerked back into his seat by the restraining belt; however, the carded puppets in the back were not so lucky. Bruce Wayne's muscular form flew forward and hit the back of the driver's seat, sending Tetch into spasms of raucous laughter.


	12. Chapter 12

"B-but, Mr. Scarface, he has a point!"

"Shaddup, dummy! When we get outta here, we're gonna need a decent hideout! Do you think Gatman will just fergit agout it? Huh?"

"Well, n-no…"

"Now you're thinkin'," Scarface said approvingly. "Ya just listen ta me, Dummy, and everything will ge all right."

Robin sighed and turned away, rubbing his forehead. Three supervillains had escaped Arkham, teamed up, and were now most likely hatching some diabolical master plan for Gotham's downfall; Hatter's mind chips had been found on no less than six other guards in the Asylum, two of whom had been controlling the broadcasting scramblers; the Riddler had left a long, complicated code in dots, dashes, and squiggles on his cell wall; and the good Dr. Bartholomew had just informed Robin that the Lee Ki Shipyards had been robbed by some wacko in a shark suit. And on top of all that, Batman was inexplicably missing. Robin had better things to do with his time than listen to the bickering of a split personality.

"Scarface," Robin said wearily into the phone.

"Whaddya want? I'm talking ta Dummy!"

"If I let you go right now, would you tell me where Nygma's hideout is?"

"I TOLD YA, IT'S MY HIDEOUT, NOT THAT #!% RIDDLER'S!"

A frantic tapping sound came from the one-way glass behind Robin, but the vigilante ignored it.

"Fine!" Robin snapped, and immediately regretted it. The wooden dummy smirked at him and crossed its arms smugly.

"Lose your temper?" it taunted. "Ya should pay getter attention ta Gatman!"

Robin gritted his teeth, but said nothing.

"So, ya want me ta tell everything, and in return yer just gonna let me go?" Scarface said, relaxing against Arnold's body.

Robin nodded.

"I ain't stupid," Scarface snapped. "What's the catch?"

Robin opened his mouth to answer, but felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Dr. Leland standing behind him, her eyes flashing.

"You cannot let him go!" she snapped. "He's far from cured—violent, dissociating, paranoid… he's a danger to society!"

"I didn't promise to let Wesker go," Robin explained. "Just Scarface."

Dr. Leland paused for a moment.

"Well," she admitted, "if you can persuade him to do it… it might actually help him. It would be a way to separate him from Scarface without actually confiscating the dummy… he always makes a new one somehow. But you know that. This could be the break we've been looking for… if you can get him to do it."

"Whaddya talking agout? I'm right here!" Scarface yelled.

"Dr. Leland says you can go, if you tell us where Riddler went," Robin said.

Scarface seemed to be thinking. His glass eyes moved suspiciously from side to side, and he propped one wooden arm on the shelf.

"…yer serious?" he said finally.

"Hey, do I look like the kind of guy who makes jokes?" Robin deadpanned.

"Ya got a point there," Scarface admitted. "Well, guddy, you're in luck. You got yourself a deal." Scarface exhaled a long sigh and settled back onto Arnold's lap. "Warehouse 32, agout three glocks from the docks. It's an old run-down shack, gut it's got a gig gasement, if ya get my drift. It's real hard ta get to in a car, gut you can walk right up ta it if you want to."

Robin nodded.

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, that's all!" the dummy replied roughly. "Now lemme outta here!"

Dr. Leland motioned to one of the orderlies, who walked into Wesker's side of the visitor's booth and began to take away the wooden dummy.

"Hey, what the- what's going on? Whaddya doin' ta me?" Scarface yelled.

"He's taking you out," Robin explained. "Don't you want to go?"

"Yeah, gut what agout Dummy?"

"I didn't say anything about Wesker going. I said I'd let you go," Robin replied.

Scarface let loose with a long string of expletives.

"Why are you so upset?" Dr. Leland interrupted. "Is it because you're finally starting to realize what we've been telling you?"

"Shaddup, doll!" growled Scarface. "Do you really think I'm a puppet? Huh? Do I look like a puppet ta you? Scarface ain't nogody's puppet. And Dummy sure as 'ell ain't a multiple. Just trust me on this one. Hey! Whaddya doin'? Put me down! Put me _down!_ When I get outta here..."

Scarface's threats trailed off as the orderly backed out of the room hurriedly. Arnold Wesker was staring at him in horror.

"Mr. Scarface!" he cried. "You... you can't just treat him like that! B-bring him back!"

Dr. Leland slipped through the door into Wesker's side of the booth and began to talk, explaining everything in a calm, encouraging voice, but Robin didn't hear. He was already out the door and headed for the Batmobile.

_Warehouse 32._

"Computer," he ordered, slipping into the leather seat, "locate warehouse 32."

"Multiple matches found. Did you mean: Bayside Warehouse 32? Moretti's Warehouse 32? Warehouse 32, Official? Waynecorp Warehouse 32?"

"Locate Warehouse 32 in the warehouse district," Robin directed.

"Match found. Warehouse 32, Official. Distance: 5.7 miles. Anticipated driving time: 10 minutes. Proceed straight onto Arkham Boulevard, then merge right onto ramp 667 to 42nd street."

"Thank you, computer," Robin sighed, and pressed the gas pedal almost to the floor.

"You have a telecall waiting for," the computer noted. "Caller: Alfred. Pennyworth."

Robin reached over and punched the speaker button.

"Alfred."

"Master Dick! You must find the Riddler as soon as possible! I believe that he has teamed up with the Scarecrow and, eh, that Mad Hatter."

"Yes, I know."

"What?" Alfred sounded almost surprised for once. "You do? I am impressed. But you must find them quickly!"

"I'm on my way. What'd they do now, kidnap the mayor's kid?" Robin asked.

"You don't understand," Alfred said. "They kidnapped Bruce Wayne."


	13. Chapter 13

"They… are you sure?" Robin asked. The Batmobile raced down Arkham Boulevard and veered sharply onto the on-ramp, narrowly missing a slow-moving blue sedan.

"Absolutely positive. The Riddler left a clue on the studio tape, spelling out _Wane. _I, er, called Commissioner Gordon and told him Master Bruce hasn't been seen lately. Apparently, the Scarecrow set off a large gas bomb in Gotham Square earlier this evening and there are several people missing."

"And Bruce was _Christmas shopping," _Robin groaned. "Well, that explains where Batman is."

"Speaking of which, Commissioner Gordon said he was going to send up the Bat-signal as soon as he could," Alfred said. "You'd best hurry before someone notices Bruce Wayne and Batman are both missing…"

"Say no more," Robin sighed, pushing the gas pedal down even harder. "I'm headed to Warehouse 32, the official one. Scarface said it was one of Riddler's new hideouts."

"Warehouse 32… I see it," Alfred murmured, looking at something off-screen. "It's owned by an A. Wesker… hasn't officially been used in months. Be careful; it's right on the edge of Scarface's and the Moretti family's turf."

"What, you don't trust me?" Robin joked.

"Distance to destination: 3.2 miles. Your speed: 85 miles per hour. Recalculating driving time," the computer intoned.

Alfred coughed and looked away pointedly.

"Hey, you said to hurry," Robin said, weaving around the slower-moving traffic. A cement truck, unhappy at being cut off, honked loudly.

"Take a left onto Cutler Street," the computer directed.

The Batmobile nearly skidded on two wheels as it rounded the corner.

"Take the first right after Marina Circle," the computer said. "Turn right again onto Box Street. Destination will be on your left."

"As I said before, Master Dick: be careful," Alfred advised, and ended the call.

"Don't worry," Robin sighed, and jammed on the brakes. The Batmobile came to a screeching, rubber-burning, pavement- marking stop in front of a derelict warehouse.

"Number thirty, huh?" Robin muttered to himself. "Well, let's find number thirty-two."

He glanced around the street before easing the Batmobile forward, the powerful motor thrumming softly. This part of town was definitely not on the up-and-up. Broken windows decorated nearly every building, and the cold moonlight threw pale, dim light and deep shadows on everything, giving it an icy, sinister look. Across the street, a homeless drifter sat up groggily, shaken out of sleep by the sudden squeal of tires. Seeing the Batmobile, his eyes widened, and he darted into one of the alleys. Robin shook his head.

"So much for the support of the citizens," he said. "Warehouse thirty-one, warehouse thirty-three, warehouse thirty-four… wait a minute."

He threw the Batmobile into reverse and backed up.

"Huh. Well. Straight from thirty to thirty-two on this side, and thirty-one to thirty-three…" Robin frowned. "Locate Warehouse 32, Official."

"Match found. Warehouse 32, Official. Distance: 32 meters west."

Robin glanced to his left. Warehouses 30 and 34 rubbed shoulders, separated only by a dark, uninviting alley. No Warehouse 32.

"Show map," Robin ordered.

The screen blinked for a moment and then displayed an aerial picture of Gotham. Warehouses 30 and 34 were clearly visible; just behind them, a third building lit up in red.

"Warehouse 32, Official," the computer droned.

Robin smacked his forehead.

"Scarface did say it was hard to drive to," he muttered. "Computer, lock everything and wait for me."

Robin opened the door and stepped outside, watching in satisfaction as panels slid over any exposed buttons, knobs, or dials, and the powerful headlights flickered off. Shutting the door, he waited for the soft _thunk _of the locks going down before taking a deep breath and running towards the dark alley.

Gotham's alleys had a bad, if not undeserved, reputation. On any given day, an alley could contain up to seven muggers, prostitutes, homeless winos, junkies drifting from one hit to another, gang members, mafia bosses in meetings, or Rogue-and-henchmen groups about to embark on a crime spree. Robin was pleasantly surprised to find that this alley was relatively clean. An overflowing Dumpster was shoved against a poorly-concealed secret door—Robin made a mental note to come back and check it later—and a short, overweight lady of the night was doing her best to appear innocent and unconcerned next to it. There was even a faint, flickering light at the end of the alley. Apparently this block still had one functioning streetlight on it.

Robin breathed deeply, staying alert to any sound, any movement in the shadows as he emerged from the alley. It seemed to be a favorite trick of Rogues to place two guards just outside the entrance or exit of an alley and surprise any would-be interferers with a solid blow from behind. He'd been whacked, or nearly whacked, across the head enough times to be wary about leaving any narrow space. It was just too easy to ambush someone that way.

However, there was no one. Robin gave a low whistle. If his luck kept going this way, he'd surprise the Rogues one by one and have them tied up by midnight. Glancing quickly in both directions, Robin darted across the street towards the hulking shape of Warehouse 32. However, in his eagerness- and attentiveness to the shadows that clung to every doorway, window, and alley- he failed to notice a small security camera mounted high on a nearby building. The tiny black lens peered out from just underneath the gutter, far back enough that the moonlight could cast no telltale gleam on its surface, and zoomed in on Robin's caped form, following the vigilante as he crept quickly yet silently towards a dark window.

Inside the warehouse, Edward Nigma allowed himself an extremely smug smirk and leaned back in his padded chair.

"There's the Bat-brat," he said. "Batman can't be far behind. Let's give him a warm welcome."

**"Here comes a lighter to light you to bed," **Scarecrow agreed.

Behind them, Jervis Tetch placed a hand on each of their shoulders and grinned widely.

"That's settled, then," he said. "Let's get on with the game."


	14. Chapter 14

Robin quickly glanced all around him before swinging himself easily through the broken window. The warehouse was dark, quiet, and clean; it made him uneasy. Either the Riddler hadn't used Scarface's hideout at all, or he had some sort of secret—

Without warning, a metal plate dropped from the ceiling, narrowly missing Robin. The Boy Wonder had just enough time to throw himself sideways and avoid the trap, which quickly folded itself up and disappeared into a trapdoor in the ceiling. Robin breathed a sigh of relief. He peered into the darkness, trying to make out any further triggers. The little moonlight that trickled in through the broken windows was faint and weak; he could see only vague, shadowy shapes. In any other warehouse, they might have been crates, barrels, or disassembled machinery in storage; Robin somehow doubted that these shapes were anything so innocuous. He took a hesitant step forward and immediately felt his legs brush up against a thin, stretched wire. Robin threw himself flat.

"Hello, Batman," a nasally voice crackled from somewhere near the ceiling. "So good of you to join us! I've got a riddle for you that I'm sure you'll _love. _'What I guard, I do not want; my enemies laugh, but I say naught. I'm fairly empty on the inside, but when my foes see me, they scream and cry.' Better think quick, Batman…"

Robin gritted his teeth. He had a fair idea what this riddle might be, and quickly reached for the gas mask on his utility belt. Just as he placed it on his face, a soft hissing noise informed him that he had been none too soon.

"Always be prepared," Robin joked to himself.

"**It is a pity," **a scratchy voice rasped behind him, **"that you weren't prepared for this!"**

Robin whirled around; in the same instant, a long, bony arm encircled his neck and the gas mask was ripped away. Robin held his breath and lashed out with both feet at him assailant. There was a soft grunt in the darkness, and a metallic gleam caught Robin's eye—

WHOOOSH!

A gleaming scythe sliced the air inches from Robin's ear, causing the vigilante to jump. He blinked, trying to locate Scarecrow in the darkness. His lungs were beginning to burn; he had to stop the insane professor and find his gas mask quickly.

"**Here comes a lighter to light you to bed," **Scarecrow rasped menacingly. **"Here comes a chopper to chop off your head!"**

WHOOOSH!

Robin ducked as the scythe whistled overhead once more. He flung an arm out towards Scarecrow, but his fist connected with empty air, and he staggered, off-balance, into a stack of crates. The crates immediately emitted a soft beep, and Robin threw himself away from them just as something heavy dropped from the ceiling, crashing into the ground where he had been standing a few minutes ago.

"**Ready or not, here I come!"**

Robin smiled inwardly. As long as Jonathan Crane was reciting fragments of menacing nursery rhymes, he was giving Robin a good estimation of his position. Robin hurled a Batarang into the darkness and was rewarded with a low snarl from Scarecrow. Taking advantage of the straw man's confusion, he leapt into the shadows, sending the Scarecrow flying into another stack of crates. The lanky professor jumped up, barely avoiding a suddenly-opening trapdoor. Robin could see his narrow frame dimly outlined in the faint light of a nearby window, the scythe poised menacingly in one hand. Scarecrow took a step forward. Robin pulled another Batarang from his belt and threw it, catching Crane in the shin and sending him stumbling. Taking advantage of his enemy's confusion, Robin rushed at him, ducking under the sweep of the scythe, and knocked him to the ground.

"Give up, Scarecrow!" he shouted.

A jagged smile spread across the Scarecrow's face, and Robin suddenly remembered.

_The fear gas. Oh—_

Suddenly, the whole world was rocking, spinning, off-balance. Robin stared at Scarecrow's burlap face, horrified, as it stretched and twisted into a hideous visage. The stitching across the mouth morphed into a maw filled with teeth like shards of broken glass, uneven and jagged, and razor sharp; the eyeholes narrowed into glowing, yellow, animalistic eyes that leered down at Robin. The monstrous face filled Robin's vision. What he had seen before was not The Scarecrow; that had been Jonathan Crane, former professor, in a burlap mask, a cheap imitation of the Master of Fear. But this… this was a being of pure malice, a nightmare-faced murderer, an embodiment of all that Robin hated and feared. This was The Scarecrow.

Robin was shaking uncontrollably as he backed away on all fours, desperate to get away from The Scarecrow. The toothy mouth widened even farther into an evil smile as the straw man raised his scythe. Blood ran down the curved edge and dripped onto the floor; Robin was frozen with terror. He could not move, could not speak, could not breathe…

Behind the mask, Scarecrow cackled. Oh, this was wonderful. The Bat-brat's eyes were wide, his whole form shaking with terror… maybe Robin wasn't exactly a crow, but he'd certainly been scared! The Scarecrow leaned in closer, watching Robin's eyes bulge with terror, and drank in the fear.

"**What's the matter?" **he hissed. **"Did I… **_**scare**_** you?"**

"No… no, please… I… I can't…" Robin stuttered. "Please, no…"

Scarecrow lifted the scythe, but hesitated. If he killed Robin now, it would mean the end of the boy's terror… _He's a valuable test subject, as well, _Crane thought. _And when Batman shows up… well, from what Hatter said about Batman in Arkham, it's fairly obvious that the Bat would be afraid if someone hurt his little Robin… yes, powerless and useless… and afraid. _

"Scarecrow?" the Riddler's impatient voice crackled over the speakers. "What's going on in there? Has the Batman shown up yet?"

"**I frightened a little bird," **Scarecrow smirked. "But, regrettably, there has been no sign of our interfering friend. **Perhaps I'll skip to the end and put his sidekick out of his misery."**

He glanced around, searching the shadows almost hopefully. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by Robin's fragmented pleading.

"I—I can't… no, please…"

"Mmm. That's rather odd," the Riddler commented. "Ordinarily, he swoops down from the shadows at this point. Well, never mind. This merely provides further incentive for Batman to solve the riddle."

"I was about to point out that it would provide further insight into Batman's mind," Scarecrow said. "Specifically, his—"

"Fear and phobias, yes, we know," the Riddler replied snidely. "You do nothing but talk about fear and phobias, phobias and fear. Tell me, do you _ever _think about anything else?"

"**Tell me, do you ever think?"** Scarecrow rasped murderously. "For a so-called genius, you have remarkably poor judgment."

"Resorting to ill-concealed threats already? How childish," sneered the Riddler.

"Here the King interrupted," interrupted the Mad Hatter, over the intercom, "to prevent the quarrel going on: he was very nervous, and his voice quite quivered."

"That makes absolutely no sense," the Riddler snapped.

"Take care of the sounds," the Hatter said loftily, "and the sense will take care of itself."

"**I'm bringing the Boy Blunder to the maze center," **the Scarecrow announced. **"The experiment will proceed as planned when Batman arrives."**

"Very well," Edward Nygma grumbled. The sides of a stack of crates suddenly slid up to reveal a passage leading into darkness. The Scarecrow seized Robin by the shoulders, pulling him upright and propelling him towards the darkness.

"_**Hush, **_**little baby, don't make a sound…"**


	15. Chapter 15

"Excellent! Now—let me see—'On this, the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows—'" Jervis Tetch recited, looked expectantly at Bruce Wayne.

"The Queen… of Hearts, she made… some tarts… all on a… summer's day. The… Knave of Hearts, he… stole… those tarts… and took them… quite away…" Wayne said, staring blankly at the wall over the Hatter's shoulder.

"Consider… your verdict!" the carded henchman replied eagerly.

"Oh, well done," the Mad Hatter beamed.

A few feet away, the Riddler looked up from his console and quirked an eyebrow at Tetch, but said nothing. The Mad Hatter had used what little furniture there was in the control room to set up a "courtroom." Currently, Tetch only had three mind-control victims, so his roleplay had been limited to scenes with the King of Hearts, the Queen of Hearts, and the White Rabbit in them. Edward Nygma was beginning to get tired of it.

"Hatter," he interrupted. The Englishman half-turned and faced the Riddler with a wide, toothy smile.

"Yes?"

"Here's a riddle for you. What's more powerful than God, more evil than the devil, the rich need it, the poor have it, and if you eat it, you die?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," the Hatter said cheerfully, and turned back to his puppets. "Where were we? Ah yes…"

"Not yet… not yet…" Bruce Wayne slurred. "Not yet… not yet… not… yet… not… yet…"

"Drat it!" Tetch burst out. "Drat, drat, drat…" He placed his hands to his temples and appeared to be concentrating.

Edward Nygma looked up curiously.

"A malfunction?" he guessed.

"I didn't have time to properly rebuild the control band," Tetch explained impatiently. "It's _rather _hard to explain. Hush, now, and—"

"Not yet," Bruce Wayne said. "There's a great… deal to… come before that."

"Much better!" the Hatter sighed.

Just then, the door to the control room swung open, and the Scarecrow walked in, half-dragging Robin.

"**Gentlemen," **he rasped, **"behold the effects of fear."**

Robin looked up. His eyes were wide and unfocused, staring at unseen horrors, and he shook soundlessly.

"Have a seat," Crane ordered. Robin collapsed in a heap, drew his knees up to his chest, and buried his head in his arms.

"Congratulations," the Riddler said dryly. "Your precious toxin has now achieved a much more ineffectual version of Hatter's mind control."

"**Do Hatter's victims scream and shake?"** Crane asked roughly. "Do they watch in horror as their worst nightmares come to life before their very eyes? No, no, I think not. This, _this _is the most powerful weapon available to—"

"I need a new hat band," the Mad Hatter remarked, taking off his oversized hat and staring at it. Behind him, his puppets stood slack-jawed and unmoving. "This one won't do at _all. _Does anyone have any spare microcircuitry I could borrow?"

"Seriously?" scoffed the Riddler, ignoring Hatter's interruption. "You honestly believe that _fear _is the most powerful weapon in existence? Clearly, you have never worked with Brainiac. Fear is nothing but a primal emotion, easily rendered harmless and ignored by a strong will and powerful intellect—"

"Even the strongest mind on Earth is helpless in the throes of Fear!" Crane snapped. "Have you ever seen people under the influence of Fear? They beg for mercy, claw at each other mercilessly, turn on their nearest and dearest in a pitiful attempt to escape their terror! They forget all vestiges of reason and logic and become crazed, savage, desperate! **They **_**scream **_**and they **_**cry**_**!"**

"Oh, I'm sure they do," the Riddler replied. "But only because they, unlike me, have failed to—"

"Fixed!" the Mad Hatter interrupted cheerfully.

Both villains turned to face him with some impatience. Jervis Tetch held up a miniature screwdriver in his left hand and replaced his oversized hat with his right.

"Now we shall have some fun!" he said brightly.

"Oh, wonderful," the Riddler sighed, rolling his eyes. "You managed to fix your hat band. I'm overcome with—wait. What exactly did you use to repair your microcircuitry?"

"Not _repair," _Tetch corrected him. "Just… _replace. _You see, my last hat-band was rigged in rather a hurry, and I had to make do without—"

The Riddler spun around in his chair and froze. Above the control console, the large computer monitor sat lifeless and blank. The CPU had been opened, and the dissembled contents littered the floor and desk. Jervis Tetch settled his hat firmly on his head and beamed proudly. His smile wavered slightly as Edward Nygma's head slowly turned to face him.

"You didn't," Riddler said slowly.

"Er… didn't do what?" Tetch frowned.

A dull red spread over Edward Nygma's face.

"You… you…" he spluttered. "You _ruined _my computer! It's demolished! Dismantled! Destroyed! What on earth were you thinking, Hatter? That console controls the entire surveillance system! Without it, Batman can waltz right into our maze and we'd never know it! Why did you do this? _Why?"_

Jonathan Crane sniggered, unable to resist a jab.

"What, your powerful intellect didn't _foresee_ this coming?" he taunted.

The Riddler turned on him, face paling in fury.

"Shut up!" he shrieked. "Shut up, you useless lump of bone and tissue! Your mind isn't on the same level as mine! All you ever do is go on and on about your simple, silly, _stupid _toxin! What have you ever seriously accomplished for science, for knowledge? All your experiments are nothing less than thinly-veiled attempts to indulge your own _stupid_ fascination with fear! And even then, your so-called crimes are so poorly executed that a child could see them coming. You're nothing but a common crook!""

Something dark and ugly flickered in Crane's eyes, but Nygma was too angry to take notice.

"And you!" he shouted, turning on the Mad Hatter, who scowled back at him. "You haven't the slightest vestige of foresight or intelligence, you brainless moron! You've just sunk our best shot at capturing the Batman. You've wrecked our plans, all of them, and why? So can play dress-up with a playboy billionaire! Oh, how mature! You, sir, are certifiably _insane!"_

"We're all mad here!" Tetch snapped.

"**So you… think you're better than anyone else, hmmmm?" **Scarecrow rasped, advancing slightly. One skinny hand slid into his deep jacket pocket.

"It's _very _rude to make personal remarks!" the Mad Hatter added, cocking his hat deliberately.

"Oh, please. Don't even try to scare me," scoffed Nygma. "I have the gas mask, remem—" he stopped, turning pale as Scarecrow held up the green plastic mask.

"**I would mention my own foresight at this point, but as my mind isn't on the same level as yours, I feel that it would be wasted," **Scarecrow smirked.

"You obviously can't gas me, since it would also mean exposing the Mad Hatter to your toxin," the Riddler said in a rush.

"**An excellent point," **Scarecrow hissed, and tossed the Riddler's mask to Tetch. **"Tell me, Edward Nygma, what do you fear?"**

"Wait. Stop. Scarecrow. Let's think things through, shall we? Batman will be showing up any minute now, and—no, don't! Listen to me. A house divided cannot stand."

Riddler was almost pleading now, holding his cane in front of him as if to ward off the spindly professor's advance. Scarecrow was cackling already, holding the canister of fear gas in front of him and poised to spray. His shadow leaped on the wall behind him, looking like some monstrous creature of the night, all knees and elbows and claws and teeth.

"Crane. Scarecrow. Listen," Riddler said hastily. "What are you going to do when Batman arrives? You don't know how to operate the death maze without me."

"**The maze is broken," **Scarecrow grinned.

"Wait! No!"

Suddenly, Riddler seemed to regain some of his arrogance. He sat up a little straighter and smiled at Jonathan Crane.

"Besides, did you ever think to keep an eye on the prisoner? Looks like your little bird has flown the coop," he pointed out.

Scarecrow spun around with a snarl. It was true. Robin had gone.

"The White Rabbit!" Tetch cried. "Where _can _he have gone to?"

"**What?"** Scarecrow screeched, turning to face the Mad Hatter. Tetch sadly held up a plastic headband with white, fluffy ears still attached.

"The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan, and scurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go," the Mad Hatter said mournfully.

The Riddler opened his mouth to taunt the Scarecrow, but thought better of it.

"I have a backup console down the hall," he said. "It's hardly the same as—"

"**Get it working," **the Scarecrow hissed. **"I'm going to locate the Boy Blunder, along with that insufferable billionaire, and give them both a taste of real fear. I'll bring them back shortly, screaming for mercy."**


	16. Chapter 16

Darkness. There was nothing but darkness. It wasn't that Batman could _see_ nothing in the darkness, or feel nothing, or hear… there simply was nothing except the darkness. No sound, no touch, no taste, no smell, no thought. Batman wasn't even sure what a thought _was_ here. There was something he should be doing, or remembering, or thinking of, but he just didn't know any longer. It didn't exist any more; there was nothing here but the darkness.

Suddenly, he was jolted back to… to something. A few feet away, a man stood with his back to Batman, a shock of wild blond hair obscuring his face. He wore a long indigo frock coat, white… shoes… (Batman frowned; someone, somewhere would have had a name for them, but he couldn't quite remember at the moment), and appeared to be examining an oversized top hat. Specifically, the inside of said top hat. Batman frowned again, or tried to; it occurred to him suddenly that he could not move his body, and that should worry him. But he couldn't seem to be able to worry, either.

There was a name for the man with the hat. The hat… _hat_… hatter.

_You're mighty in Gotham, Batman, but in Wonderland, the Mad Hatter reigns supreme!_

Batman groaned soundlessly. He was beginning to remember now. He'd been captured by the Mad Hatter—or… was it… Scarecrow?

"**Seriously?"**a voice scoffed from somewhere, interrupting Batman's thoughts. **"You honestly believe that fear is the most…"**

The voice sounded muted, distorted, as if Batman were listening to something underwater. But it hardly sounded like either Hatter or Scarecrow… the voice was familiar, but Batman couldn't place it.

_Do you know what happens to gatecrashers? They have to match wits with… the Riddler!_

That, too, was part of his memory. The Riddler… and the Mad Hatter…

"**Even the strongest mind on Earth is helpless in the throes of fear!"**

…and the Scarecrow. They were all here. It all brought back a strong sense of déjà vu, but Batman couldn't seem to place it just… yet…

He caught a flash of scarlet out of the corner of his eye. If he hadn't been immobilized, he would have turned his head or even his eyes, but as it was he just couldn't. Concentrating, Batman strained his eyes and managed to look sideways for a few seconds.

A well-built teenage boy, clad in a red-and-green costume with a yellow cape, sat trembling a few feet away. His knees were pulled close to his body, and his head was buried in his arms, hiding his face, but Batman easily recognized him. Robin.

_And probably suffering from Scarecrow's fear gas, _Batman thought grimly. _If I can get his attention, maybe he can pull off the mind-control chip before the others notice. _

Concentrating as hard as he could, Batman willed his right hand to move. He could feel it; it was coming up, coming up, coming up… straining to look downwards, he could see it fixed in place. With a colossal effort, Batman willed it away from his body. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he struggled…

…it didn't budge.

With a silent sigh, Batman gave up. This wasn't working. He had to find some way… Just then, a movement on the edge of his vision caught his eye. There was a flutter of yellow and black, and suddenly Batman's body relaxed as Robin snatched something off his head. Batman's first instinct was to inhale deeply, but he checked it and glanced at his partner. Robin was still shaking slightly, his eyes wider than usual, but he seemed to be otherwise all right. Batman glanced at the object Robin had removed from his head, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. A bunny-ears headband. No doubt there was a microchip in it somewhere…

Dropping the headband, Robin shakily moved towards a door in the wall and motioned for Batman to follow him.

"…shut up!" the Riddler shrieked. "Shut up, you worthless lump of bone and tissue! Your mind isn't on the same level as mine!..."

Robin opened the door, his hand still shaking slightly, and opened it silently. He stepped outside, and Batman slipped through after him, closing the door quietly behind him. Outside, a dark corridor stretched away on either side of them. It was quiet.

"Robin," Batman breathed. "Are you all right?"

Robin managed a weak smile.

"Yeah, I guess so," he said.

"Do have the antidote?"

"Yeah," Robin admitted sheepishly, digging in his utility belt for the small vial. "He just—I got gassed in the middle of a fight. No time."

Batman didn't say anything, just watched silently as Robin injected himself with the cure to fear.

"Where are we?"

"Warehouse district. It's one of Scarface's old hideouts, but Riddler converted it to a death maze for you. Oh yeah—Riddler, Mad Hatter, and Scarecrow have teamed up. They kidnapped you… uh, they kidnapped Bruce Wayne, and the star from a trivia show—"

"—and an innocent woman," Batman finished. "Where's the Batmobile? I know you took it."

"It's parked outside," Robin said. "Don't ask me where that is. Did I mention the death trap maze yet?"

"Yes. But if I know Nygma, he won't want to have to solve his own riddles every time he steps outside. There's got to be another way out."

"Bruce Wayne! How nice to see you!"

Bruce and Robin spun around. The wall behind them flickered and suddenly melted into a giant TV screen filled with the Riddler's gloating face.

"Oh, so the little bird-boy lent you a hand, eh? How very kind of him. Maybe he can help you out with a riddle. Don't worry, it's not hard. We wouldn't want to strain that billion-dollar brain, now would we? Assuming it exists!" Riddler chuckled. "Since Batman is appearing behind the eight ball in this game, it looks like I'll just have to let the two of you take his place… for now. He will come, you know. Eventually. He always comes… sooner or later. But until then, looks like it's the Prince of Gotham and the Boy Blunder at bat! So tell me, what's the biggest diamond in the world?"

The Riddler disappeared in a blur of static.

"Uh… Riddler! Wait!" Batman yelled in his "Bruce Wayne" voice. "How are we supposed to tell you the answer?"

Robin looked at Bruce, confused. Bruce narrowed his eyes slightly, and Robin caught on.

"Knowing the Riddler, he's probably watching and listening from someplace safe," he explained to Bruce Wayne. "The answer is usually something we have to do or say. Trust me, I have experience with this."

"The biggest diamond in the world," Bruce moaned. "That's… I think it's the Blue Monkey. Or maybe the Victoria?"

"But how do we…"

"You're quite amusing," came Nygma's smug voice from overhead. "But I doubt anyone can really give this answer any longer."

"What…"

Suddenly, a panel at the far end of the corridor slid up, and a tall, lean figure stepped out, a crescent scythe clutched in one hand. It wore a dull red shirt with patches at the elbows, a ragged pair of pants, and a battered felt hat with bunchy straw tumbling out from under it. Bits of hay and straw clung to it, and a hemp noose dangled from its neck. The figure looked up slowly, revealing a burlap face with a poorly-stitched mouth twisted into a malevolent sneer. Bruce instinctively held his breath. It was the Scarecrow.


	17. Chapter 17

"Scarecrow," Robin said accusingly.

Bruce Wayne moved back a few steps. Hopefully, Robin could take Crane down quickly and without Bruce's help… the last thing they needed was someone making a connection between the missing Batman and the present Bruce Wayne.

"**Girls and boys, come out to play," **hissed the Scarecrow, sending his scythe swinging in a gleaming arc just over Robin's head.

"Hey, did you hear that?" Robin said to Bruce, dodging the scythe's blade and seizing the handle in one hand. "He just called you a _girl."_

Robin yanked the scythe forward, hoping to catch Scarecrow off-balance, but the wiry villain had enough sense to let go of the handle, sending Robin toppling backwards into Bruce.

"**Nice try," **Scarecrow snickered.

Reaching into his worn jacket, Crane pulled out an aerosol canister. Before he could begin to spray, however, a Batarang knocked it from his hand.

"Funny," Robin commented, tossing the scythe aside. "I was just about to tell you that."

The Scarecrow snarled and lunged for the canister of fear toxin. At the same moment, Robin dived at him, but missed as Crane stooped to pick up the canister. Robin rebounded off the maze wall and bumped into Crane from behind, sending the lanky villain stumbling forward. Bruce saw his chance. Grabbing the abandoned scythe, he stuck its wooden handle between Scarecrow's legs, tripping him and sending him sprawling. Robin kicked the canister to the far end of the maze and grabbed Scarecrow by the collar.

"Let go of me!" Crane shouted furiously as Robin pulled him off the ground and pinned him against the maze. "I am the Master of Fear! Release me this moment, or I will return and unleash such horror upon you that your mind will never again function properly!"

Robin yawned.

"You should really get a new 'captured speech,'" he said. "This one's getting a little old."

Behind him, the maze wall flickered back to life. Edward Nygma smirked at Robin and the pinned Scarecrow.

"You've managed to take down a scarecrow," he said. "I'm _so_ impressed. The little redbreast can fight without his shadowy supporter by his side. But the real question is: can he _think?"_

Robin was about to reply, but Scarecrow began thrashing violently, his bony limbs jerking unpredictably in Robin's grasp. Robin struggled to keep his hold on Crane while Scarecrow hissed and spat and did his best to get away.

"Mmm," the Riddler remarked casually, "I'd give you the next riddle, but it looks like you've got your hands full at the moment. I guess that just leaves our brilliant (or not) billionaire. Where's Mr. Bruce Wayne?"

Riddler glanced from side to side until he caught sight of Bruce Wayne, standing well away from Scarecrow and gingerly examining his White Rabbit outfit.

"Well, well, and how Gotham's most eligible—and least qualified—bachelor?" jeered the Riddler. "May I compliment you on your choice of attire? It looks positively stunning on you."

"You," Bruce growled. The Riddler quirked an eyebrow, and he hastily amended in a weaker tone, "I-I've seen you on television. You're a wanted criminal!"

"Absolutely correct!" the Riddler nodded, curling a hand thoughtfully around the polished top of his cane. "But not exactly in the way you think. I'm just a gamester—a sporting man, if you will. Can I help it if society doesn't approve of my games? Once upon a time, it seemed to think they were rather good. Ah, well, the fickle favor of fortune," he shrugged. "Let the games continue!"

"We're done playing games, Riddler," Robin exclaimed, coming to stand by Bruce and dragging an inert Jonathan Crane behind him.

"_We_? Finding a Batman replacement already, Robin? I can't say I don't approve. I'm fairly certain you'll never be upstaged by _Bruce Wayne," _sniggered the Riddler.

Robin gritted his teeth.

"But I digress! Of course you're going to keep playing my game. If you don't, the so-called Genius of Gotham—quite an ingenious method of cheating he's been using, by the way—will have to cough up for the debt that all men pay. And so, I may add, will you. Proceed to your left, leaving that spineless bag of straw on the floor behind you, and you'll be directed directly in the right direction."

"No deal," Robin said.

"Deal? _Deal? _How amusing. You seem to be under the impression that this is a negotiation of sorts. Wrong, Robin. I made my last proposition years ago, and my will is no longer subject to question."

The screen and the Riddler vanished; at the same time, a panel near the end of the corridor slid open.

"Um…" Robin glanced down the hall, then back at Bruce Wayne. He grinned. "Follow me, Mr. Wayne."

"Are you… sure it's safe?" Bruce asked, stepping away from Scarecrow.

"Don't worry about him," Robin said. "Not even Scarecrow can squeeze out of these cuffs. They're specially made."

"But…" Bruce looked down the hall, then shot Robin a meaningful glance. "I don't know…"

"It's okay," Robin said reassuringly. "I'll go first."

Bruce could have smacked himself. Robin couldn't seem to take a hint tonight. Before he could stop him, Robin had leaped around the corner and disappeared.


	18. Chapter 18

Robin leaped around the corner, expecting to dodge falling spikes, fire-breathing statues, or any number of inventively murderous question marks. However, he was pleasantly surprised. The new corridor opened into a small room, about the size of an average bathroom, with two doors on the left and right walls.

"And now if Mr. Wayne will please leave that pathetic bag of stuffing alone and join Robin in the next room, we can begin directly!" the Riddler said over the loudspeaker. "On to Riddle Number Two! Although I fear that this riddle will be a case of avoiding the answer."

Bruce Wayne reluctantly joined Robin the small room. A metal panel slid up from the ground, blocking off the way they had come and trapping them in the room.

"_Thank _you. And now for your next riddle," the Riddler said, clearing his throat dramatically.

"'John gave his brother James a box;

Around it there were many locks.

James woke and said it gave him pain,

So gave it back to John again.

The box was not with lid supplied,

Yet caused two lids to open wide,

And all these locks had never a key;

What kind of box, then, could it be?"

"A box…" Robin scratched his head.

"Look out!" Bruce cried.

Robin threw himself flat just as the door to the left flew open and a giant boxing glove came barreling out. The door to the right opened, and the glove disappeared inside it.

"Oh, _that_ kind of box," Bruce muttered, picking himself up off the ground.

"Honestly, Mr. Wayne, a _child _could have guessed it!" came the Riddler's mocking voice.

Without warning, the door on the left wall opened again and another giant boxing glove whistled overhead. This time, however, the top of the glove opened halfway through its career and a vicious pointed knife appeared.

"Whoa!" Robin shouted, dropping flat again.

The door to the right opened, and the boxing glove flew through it and vanished.

Bruce gritted his teeth as he got up quickly. He knew the answer to the riddle; Riddler had practically thrown it in their faces. _And you'll be directed directly in the right direction. _They had to make it through the right door—the door to the _right_—while avoiding Riddler's lethal "boxes". The real problem was getting it to look like Robin had solved the riddle. If he could bump into Robin, maybe whisper it into—

"Come on, Mr. Wayne!" Robin shouted, grabbing Bruce by the arm. "We've got to make it through the other door!"

Bruce's eyes widened slightly. Robin had solved the riddle!

"As soon as the next glove comes through, we need to get through that door," Robin explained, his face completely serious. "I'm going to grab the door and hold it open. As soon as it's open, you need to get in."

"All right," Bruce said. "Whatever you say… uh…"

Robin flashed a quick grin.

"Just call me Robin, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce bit his lip to keep from laughing. At least someone was enjoying himself. The left door swung open again, and an iron boxing glove covered with wicked spikes shot out.

"Stay down—ah, now!"

Robin leaped up and dashed to the right door, grabbing it before it could swing shut. Bruce Wayne jumped up as quickly as he could and rushed through, nearly stumbling over the three spent gloves on the floor. A soft, spongy wall blocked his way, presumably used to stop the flying boxing gloves, and a dark, narrow staircase stretched away to his right. Bruce kicked one of the gloves aside and started cautiously down the stairs. Behind him, Robin rushed through, narrowly pursued by a fourth glove, this one hissing purple gas.

"Hurry!" Robin gasped, cannonballing into Bruce from behind.

Bruce grabbed for the handrail, but there was none. For a split second, he swayed precariously on the step, unable to keep his balance. Then Robin grabbed him and pulled him back to relative safety.

"Sorry about that," Robin said.

"Uh…" Bruce managed.

"Let me go first." Robin pushed past Bruce and starting descending the staircase slowly. At the bottom, he looked up and motioned Bruce to follow him. "It's okay. There's a door here."

Bruce followed Robin warily. At the bottom of the staircase, there was indeed a door—an ordinary, wooden door with a battered metal handle. Bruce glanced around. The walls here were aged cement, stained in places by water, grease, and… Bruce swallowed hard. This had been Scarface's hideout, and unlike some of the more creative villains, the terrifying puppet was a firm believer in omerta and old-school punishment. Those who violated his code… apparently ended up here.

Robin examined the door closely. No hidden wires or obvious sensors… carefully, the vigilante cracked the door and swung it open. Another set of stairs stretched away into darkness. Robin pulled a miniature flashlight from his belt and clicked it on, shining it into the blackness. The walls were bare concrete, spotted with rusty water stains and darker, more ominous marks.

"So tell me, Robin, where was Peter when the candle went out?" the Riddler snickered.

Robin didn't answer. His flashlight had stopped on something halfway down the staircase, something that looked out of place in Scarface's dingy hideout. It was a polished oak bookcase. Robin frowned and began descending the second staircase, flashing his light into every dark corner. He stopped in front of the bookcase. It was a large, ornately carved piece of furniture.

"Must have been a bear to move," Robin commented, taking a book off the shelf. He flipped through the pages idly. "Interesting book. Did you have it printed backwards on purpose?"

"What?" Bruce grabbed the book from Robin and flipped it open. Not merely the words, but the letters themselves were all printed backwards. Bruce groaned and closed his eyes. This could only mean one thing.

"The backwards books in the cupboard on the stairs… how is that a riddle?" Robin asked, dropping the books one by one onto the stairs. "The words are backwards… no, the letters are backwards… back the way we came?"

"Mmm, close, but no cigar," the Riddler laughed. "Careful now, you wouldn't want to fall."

A rumble sounded alarmingly close on the staircase behind Robin and Bruce. The two spun around just in time to see an avalanche of—

"Playing cards?" Bruce exclaimed.

"Come on!" Robin shouted, grabbing Bruce by the arm. "We've got to get out of here!"


	19. Chapter 19

Author's note: Thank you so much for the reviews. And here's proof that really do make a difference—that was going to be the end of Scarecrow, but since several people have asked for his return, the story has been re-worked. Scarecrow will be coming back.

Additionally, I am planning my next fanfiction (and may start it before this one ends) and am taking requests. Wanna see a showdown between Killer Croc and Penguin? Or you want something softer, like a hurt/comfort fic about Ventriloquist and Scarface? Maybe a dark, descriptive story about an escape from Arkham? Or a "what-if" tale about Alice after Jervis Tetch became the Mad Hatter? Let me know in the comments section!

(Oh, by the way, I apparently forgot the disclaimer. I don't own the characters and never will. This is written completely for fun & practice, yada yada yada, et cetera, et cetera. Any profits made from this fic will be used to construct an enormous armored blimp, fly to the moon, and hold Gotham City for ransom. Thank you for reading.)

* * *

Robin rushed down the staircase, taking the stairs three at a time. Behind him, Bruce Wayne ran hard on his heels. An avalanche of playing cards cascaded after them, an endless waterfall of slick white wafers with stenciled red backs. There had to be at least a ton or two pouring down the stairs, and it was all Bruce could do to keep ahead of them. At the bottom of the stairs, another wooden door awaited them. Robin had just time to wrench it open and rush through; Bruce literally dove in, the door slamming shut behind him as millions of playing cards crashed against the wall in a splash of glossy plastic. A few cards slipped under the door and slid, face-up, into Bruce's feet.

Bruce, however, was too busy taking stock of his surroundings to notice. The new room was enormous, but had a very low ceiling; Bruce guessed they had reached the basement. It had been converted into another maze, filled with rectangular white partitions printed with hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds. Somehow, the Riddler—or more likely, the Mad Hatter— had managed to acquire the card maze from Storybook Land. Suddenly, the Ten of Clubs panel swung open, and out walked the Mad Hatter, closely followed by the King and Queen of Hearts.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little—" Tetch began. He stopped, blinking with surprise. "Where's Batman?"

"Augh! Again with Batman!" Robin exclaimed. "I am capable of fighting alone, you know. I _can _take you down without him."

"One can't believe impossible things," the Mad Hatter retorted. "But I see you've met the White Rabbit! I've been meaning to return this…" he held up the bunny-ears headband.

Bruce scowled and clenched his fists instinctively.

"Give up, Tetch," Robin ordered. "It's over."

"Wrong!" the Mad Hatter shouted, and suddenly smiled almost gently at Robin. "The game's only just started. You must begin, you know, at the beginning, and go on till you come to the end; _then _stop."

A Batarang knocked the headband out of Tetch's hand, and the Englishman scowled at Robin.

"I'm sure you recognize my friends, the King and Queen of Hearts," he said, motioning towards his carded companions. "They're here to ensure you have an absolutely _smashing _time."

At this, the Queen of Hearts brightened up. Her eyes wide and empty, she straightened up, pointed at Robin, and shouted in a high, commanding tone:

"_Off with his head!"_

"Oh, brother," Robin muttered.

The "Queen of Hearts" was an older woman, with wavy grey curls and a face that could look sweet, if it weren't so absolutely devoid of expression; clearly, she was some innocent bystander snatched off the street. At least the 10/6 card was fairly obvious, perched atop her costume-jewelry tiara. Now, if he could just snatch it off before the woman picked up her—

The Queen of Hearts reached behind her ample skirt and held up a sharp, double-edged axe.

"Off with his _head!"_

"Geez, where does Hatter get those things?" Robin grumbled. He reached for another Batarang, and caught his breath. He'd used them all!

The axe whistled through the air, and Robin somersaulted across the floor towards the Mad Hatter. Tetch, however, smiled widely, touched the brim of his hat and nodded politely to Robin, and touched the Ten of Clubs. Instantly, the panel swung around, and the Mad Hatter disappeared into the card maze.

"Riddle Number Three," came Edward Nygma's smug voice. "What multiplies whatever it divides, can subtract from anything, but never adds?"

SWOOOSH! The axe missed Robin's heads by inches.

"Off with his head!"

"An axe!" Robin yelled. "The answer to the riddle is an axe! It divides your body into multiple parts! It can cut things off, but never add them!"

The King of Hearts entered the fray unexpectedly, taking a solid swing at Robin.

"I'll have you executed!" he bellowed.

Robin ducked the punch and connected solidly with the King of Hearts' jaw, sending him sliding across the floor towards Bruce Wayne. The Queen of Hearts stared at the wall and swung the axe just over Robin's head. The boy vigilante seized the shaft of the axe and pulled hard.

"Déjà vu," he sighed, yanking the axe from the puppet's hands. "What is it with people chasing me with sharp objects?"

In the corner, the King of Hearts was getting up slowly. Bruce Wayne snatched the makeshift crown from his head, and Scarecrow's henchman blinked and sat up.

"Don't do it, boss!" he shouted. "Please, I—hey, what's goin' on here?"

"We're in a maze," Bruce said. _In case you couldn't tell. _"The Mad Hatter kidnapped me. And you… I think."

The henchman looked like he was about to get angry, but stopped and examined his costume. The Mad Hatter had dressed him in long, heavy velvet drapes, a thick golden cord around the waist, and an ugly curled judge's wig. Looking up, he took in Bruce Wayne, still in White Rabbit attire proper.

"This is too weird," the thug muttered.

"You're telling me," Bruce said. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Name's Joe," the man grunted, offering a hand. "And I swear, this is the last time I've working for Scarecrow. Or any of the costumed nutjobs, for that matter."

"Glad to hear it," Bruce replied, shaking his hand. "Bruce Wayne."

At that moment, Robin gave one tremendous pull on the axe's shaft. The Queen grabbed the other end of the handle with both hands, and Robin smiled. Letting go of the axe, he snatched the hat from her head.

"Oh my—oh, my!" the woman exclaimed, blinking rapidly. "What's going on?"

"Ya got carded, doll," Joe growled, pulling off his robes and throwing them down in disgust.

"Hey, who're you?" Robin said. "You don't exactly look like an upstanding citizen to me."

"You don't scare me, boy," sneered the thug.

"But I bet Scarecrow will," Bruce interjected. "When he catches up with us, that is."

The thug paled.

"He's—he's after us?"

"He, and the Riddler, and the Mad Hatter," Robin explained. "We could use your help getting out of here."

"Are you gonna take me to the police?" Joe asked.

"Would you rather let Scarecrow find you again?" Bruce countered.

Joe's eyes dropped.

"No," he admitted reluctantly.

"Wise choice," Robin said. "Do you know the way out?"

"No," Joe shrugged. "I'm the hired help. I was supposed to help Scarecrow haul Wayne's—uh, body over here and then stand guard for when the Batman showed up. Where is he, by the way?"

"Tahiti, I think," Robin deadpanned. "So they teamed up to get Batman?"

"Yeah, the idea was, they were going to get him in a maze or somethin' and spray him with fear gas. Hey, we're in a maze."

"Yes, we are," Robin said. "What about Tetch?"

"The Hat? I dunno. He had his own plans," Joe said. Then, suddenly, "Don't let him card me again! I—I can't stand it!"

"Don't worry, we won't," Robin said. "I guess now we just have to find him."


	20. Chapter 20

Jonathan Crane groaned and opened his eyes slowly, the maze walls blurring dangerously. His whole body throbbed, his arms were twisted at an uncomfortable angle behind him, and the fetid draft blowing into his face told him that he'd been unmasked. Again. At least this time there was no fear toxin in the air. To be beaten by the Bat-brat was humiliating enough, but having to be exposed to his own gas… Crane sat up slowly and carefully, his head abuzz with pain. He blinked several times, waiting for his vision to clear, and began to get his bearings again.

**The Boy Blunder will pay for this, **Scarecrow hissed. **Oh, yessss… he'll pay…**

"I need an aspirin," Crane mumbled.

"Riddle Number Three," the Riddler's smug voice crackled over the intercom. "What multiplies when it divides, can subtract from anything, but never adds?"

Crane winced and glared at the ceiling. **Arrogant fool. **He glanced down at his arms, which had been tightly cuffed behind his back.

**Does he honestly believe simple handcuffs can keep the Scarecrow in check? **Scarecrow scoffed. **Foolish child! **

After a few moments of awkward squirming and straining, Scarecrow went limp, exhaling softly until nearly all the air had left his lungs. Falling onto his side again, he pulled his long, bony legs close to his chest, slipping the handcuffs around his ankles so that his cuffed hands were now in front of him. A few rather painful contortions, and the cuffs clattered to the floor. Scarecrow scowled at the empty wire loops. They had been tastelessly shaped like something more-or-less batlike, making them extremely difficult to twist out of, and coated with black rubber to make them less slick.

Rubbing his sore wrists, Crane got to his knees and started feeling for his glasses. The first thing his hand encountered, however, was a rough wooden handle. The lanky professor pulled the object closer to him, incredulous.

_They left me my scythe? How extremely... _**thoughtful of them!**

Swiping his glasses off the floor, Crane hastily put them on and surveyed the rest of the corridor. Riddler had blocked off one end (naturally), and… was that a canister of fear toxin? Scarecrow cackled loudly and got to his feet, ignoring the pain radiating through Crane's head.

**Come, follow, follow, follow… **he snickered, walking to the far end of the hall and picking up the canister lovingly. _Now, if I can just find my mask… and behold, those brainless twits leave it lying yards away from me. It's really too easy. If I didn't know better, _Crane mused, grabbing the stitched burlap and slipping it over his head, _I'd think they actually wanted me to follow them. _

His headache forgotten, Crane snatched his scythe, placed his battered felt hat firmly atop his head, and placed the canister of fear gas carefully inside his ragged coat. If the Bat-brat and laughably cowardly billionaire wanted him to chase them… far be it from him to deprive them from experiencing _fear himself! _With a quiet snigger, Crane pulled a tiny remote control from the band of his hat, making a mental note to thank Jervis Tetch when he caught up to him, and pressed a button. The partition blocking his way slid open, and the Scarecrow walked into the next room. An extremely large boxing glove lay hissing on the floor, purple gas seeping from its seams. Crane was unworried; after that little incident in the cavern under Arkham, he'd made a few long-overdue improvements to his mask. _It takes more than a little burlap and twine to protect oneself from Fear._

Professor Crane glanced at the boxing glove; clearly, it had come from the door on the left… which meant that Robin had most likely taken the door to the right. A loud crash echoed from behind said door, causing Scarecrow's burlap face to split in a stitched smile. Jonathan Crane stepped over the boxing glove and opened the right door.


	21. Chapter 21

CRASH!

The third card panel went flying from a kick from Robin, narrowly missing the Mad Hatter. Tetch only laughed and vanished behind another panel.

"Give up, Tetch!" Robin shouted. "The game's over!"

"Contrariwise," came the clipped reply. "If it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic."

Joe spat. "Let us outta here, or I'm gonna split yer… uh…" he suddenly remembered Robin standing next to him and grinned nervously. "Paycheck?"

"Nice try. Hatter! Stop!" Robin shouted, as the Mad Hatter's frock coat disappeared around a corner. Dashing to the corner, he caught sight of Tetch, one gloved hand on the maze control, the other reaching for something out of Robin's sight. "Why are you doing this?"

Jervis Tetch blinked, and for a moment a trace of lucidity came back to his face. Just as quickly, it was replaced by a look of deep hatred.

"Why? _Why? _You of all people ask me why? I had a chance to be happy once, happy and free and in love and the whole world was frabjabulous… and then _he _had the nerve to barge in and tear it all away from me!" Tetch's voice became almost hysterical. "I loved Alice with every fiber of my body, I _loved _her! And if it weren't for that meddling, interfering, busybody _Bat_, we might have been happy together! But no, no, he had to step and ruin everything! _Everything!"_

There was a tremendous crash, and a long line of cards came toppling down like a line of dominoes. At the same time, the floor Tetch was standing on swung around, leaving the corridor empty. Robin jumped clear and nimbly vaulted over the nearest panel towards the Mad Hatter's exit, leaving Bruce, Joe, and the tea house owner to follow him.

"Fantastic Monster!" the Mad Hatter spat. "The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame… all he cared about was ruining my life. Even when I gave him _everything, _he had to come back, throwing away his chance at happiness just so he could ruin mine! There can be only one punishment for such perfidious behavior! _Off _with his head!"

With this last sentence, a nearby Two of Spades toppled over to reveal Jervis Tetch, the Mad Hatter, holding a long, gleaming sword. Robin sighed. He was seriously beginning to wonder where Tetch got his weaponry from.

"But it's all so much _clearer _now," the Mad Hatter said, with an unsettling grin. "One-two, one-two, and through and through! His vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head, he went galumphing back!" Tetch pressed a button on the sword's hilt and electricity suddenly arced over the blade. Robin jumped back. "If I can't have Alice… I'll have _Wonderland_ yet!"

The Mad Hatter took a wild swing at Robin, who somersaulted easily out of harm's way. The electrified sword clanged loudly against the maze panel, knocking over the Four of Diamonds and Jack of Hearts. Robin charged at him, but the Mad Hatter sidestepped at the last moment and narrowly missed the Boy Wonder with the electrified blade. Rebounding off the maze floor, Robin sent the sword flying from Tetch's hand with a well-aimed kick. The Mad Hatter gasped, his eyes widening as he backed away from Robin. With his attention on Robin, he backed straight into the burly arms of Joe the thug, closely seconded by Bruce Wayne.

"Well, hello there," Joe sneered, grabbing Tetch by the collar of his frock coat.

"Look out!" Bruce shouted, but it was too late. The Mad Hatter slipped a 10/6 card out of his sleeve and onto Joe's head.

"Unhand me this moment!" the Mad Hatter snapped.

"Yes sir, Mr. Hat," Joe replied obediently, lowering Tetch to the ground. "Whatever you say."

"Oh, great," Robin groaned. Bruce made a grab for the card, but Joe shifted out of the way and turned to face the billionaire, eyes completely blank.

"Don't let him touch your hat!" Tetch snapped. "The game's going on rather better now. Up, you lazy thing! and give these guests a spot of trouble or two."

Joe—or was it Hatter?—apparently thought Bruce Wayne posed the bigger threat, and advanced on him, hands outstretched. Jervis Tetch blocked a blow from Robin and turned to pick up his "vorpal sword",

"Help!" Bruce yelped, ducking underneath Joe's fists and conveniently falling to the ground right in front of the Mad Hatter. Tetch tripped on Wayne's legs and went sprawling in a corner, the oversized top hat tumbling off his head and rolling into a corner. Without anyone to control him, Joe froze in place, looking like a puppet which had had its strings cut.

"My hat!" the British villain shouted. Robin was on top of the Mad Hatter in a moment, twisting one arm behind him into a painful headlock.

"Don't move," he advised Tetch. The Englishman only groaned faintly. Robin pulled Tetch's other arm back and cuffed the Hatter's wrists securely. "Your little game is over."

"What do we do with him?" Bruce Wayne asked.

"We'll leave him here and come back for him once we've got Riddler," Robin said. "Then we'll take all three back to Arkham where they belong."

"All the king's horses… and all the king's men…" Tetch mumbled sadly.

Bruce carefully removed the mind control card from Joe's head, and the thug sprang to life again.

"What the—" Seeing the Mad Hatter, Joe's face contorted with fury. "Card me again, will ya? I'm gonna teach you a lesson, ya little freak!"

Before Robin could stop him, the burly thug delivered a mighty kick to Tetch's prone form. There was an audible crack as Joe's heavy boot connected with the Hatter's ribs. The Mad Hatter gasped and rolled over, spitting out blood.

"What did you do that for?" Bruce roared, grabbing Joe by the collar and slamming him against the maze wall. "Tetch is a sick man! He needs help, not a broken rib!"

"Temper, temper, Mr. Wayne," came the Riddler's voice. "I can just see the headlines now—'Billionaire Assaults Man in Warehouse Maze.' Of course, that's assuming you actually make it out of the warehouse maze… which I _highly _doubt will happen."

"Riddler, I've already taken down Scarecrow and the Mad Hatter," Robin said, addressing the ceiling. "We both know I'm going to find you and take you back to Arkham."

"Mmmm, ambitious, aren't we? What goes up must come down, but what goes down often comes back up!" the Riddler chuckled. "But I must say, Batman's extended absence is a most puzzling riddle. Any ideas?"

"That's it?" Robin said. "That's the riddle?"

"Exactly," the Riddler purred. "As the Mad Hatter so accurately put it—where's Batman? I'll need an answer quickly… and so, my friend, will you."


	22. Chapter 22

Robin gulped. His eyes shot to Bruce Wayne, who was currently fixing the thug with a patented "Batman freezing look 2.0." The truth was, Batman was standing a few feet away from him, holding a stunned thug by the lapels. But the last thing they needed was Riddler figuring that out…

"That's quite the grip you have, Mr. Wayne," came the Riddler's smug voice. "Been working out lately?"

"I don't know where Batman is," Robin blurted out hastily. "He's probably back at the Batcave watching all this."

"Nice try, kid," Riddler said. "I know the Batman. He'd have come rushing to the rescue ages ago… if he was really out there. Either he's hurt, dead, in jail, busy, or… we already have him."

Bruce swallowed hard and let go of Joe's collar.

"You're wrong," Robin said, his mind racing for an explanation. "See, uh, lately people haven't been taking me seriously. I show up alone, and everybody's first question is 'Where's Batman?' It's really, really annoying! So I've been going on some solo patrols lately, you know, as training. Maybe someday I'll want to start a crime-fighting career on my own, you know, and it just wouldn't work having people asking 'Where's Batman?' whenever I burst in on them. I mean, come on. Then you guys escaped. And this is my chance to take you down… all by myself."

There was a moment of silence. Both Robin and Bruce unconsciously held their breath.

"Nice try," the Riddler sneered. "Batman himself couldn't 'take down' the Riddler—_you_ hardly stand a chance."

"Tell that to the Mad Hatter," Robin said boldly, as Bruce breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

"Oh, please. That screwloose simpleton? Pardon me, but capturing a small-time thief who thinks taking over a tea room is the height of villainy," the Riddler snickered, "is hardly impressive."

"And the Scarecrow?" Bruce asked in an almost-growl. Robin gave him a warning look, and he quickly amended, "He seemed pretty scary to me."

"Scarecrow?" scoffed the Riddler's voice. "Don't make me laugh! That overweening ignoramus? Killer Moth cuts a more frightening figure! If it weren't for my formidable intellect, those two would still be rotting in Arkham! No, no, Robin… now that the flunkies are out of the way, we can really get down to business. Or should I say pleasure? The game must go on, you know."

"Riddler!" the Mad Hatter cried hoarsely. "Help!" Then, desperately, "The moon was shining sulkily because she thought the sun HAD GOT NO BUSINESS TO BE THERE **AFTER THE DAY WAS DONE!"** His tirade bout of painful, shallow coughing. A thin trail of dark blood slid down the Hatter's chin.

"You have my condolences," the Riddler said dryly. "And now, Robin, if you're ready, we can proceed with the game."

At the far end of the room, a heavy garage-style door slid up on its own to reveal another steel-paneled maze corridor.

"What about the Hatter?" Bruce asked in a low voice.

Joe, who been sulking and rubbing his sore shoulder at a safe distance, glowered at this.

"Leave 'im alone!" he snapped. "He… uh…"

Bruce slowly turned and gave the thug a withering glare.

"I think," Bruce said deliberately, "you punctured his lung."

Jervis Tetch muttered something that sounded like "jabberwock," and his cuffed hands curled into fists.

"Yeah, so what?" Joe said in an effort to regain his bravado. "He's not gonna die, is he?"

"He needs an ambulance," Robin said. "Do you have a phone?"

Joe sullenly pulled out a much-battered cell phone and shoved it at Robin.

"Mr. Wayne, I want you to call the police," Robin said seriously. "Both of you stay here until they come."

"And then what?" Joe mumbled. "Go to jail?"

"That's right," Robin said, not missing a beat. "I can handcuff you first if that would make you feel better."

"Um… you're going to find the Riddler alone?" Bruce queried.

"As I said, Mr. Wayne," Robin shrugged, "this is my chance to take him down single-handed."

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, and closed it again.

"Well," he said slowly, "I hope you do well. Be careful, though… I mean, the Riddler's pretty dangerous."

"Don't worry," Robin sighed, turning away and heading for the maze door.

"And, uh, for the record?" Bruce called after him. Robin half-turned and waited expectantly. "I think you can do it."

Robin smiled.


	23. Chapter 23

Jonathan Crane was knee-deep in playing cards. The slippery little wafers were surprisingly hard to wade through, and he had to stop every five seconds or so and shovel handfuls of plastic cards out of the way. There had to be at least a few dozen cubic yards, he reflected, no doubt dropped through the ceiling as a part of some idiotic riddle. Crane's head still throbbed, and he wanted nothing more than to get out of the maze, crawl back to a suitably secure hideout, synthesize a few fear-inducing hallucinogens, and terrorize the populace for a few hours. _Is that so much to ask? _he grumbled to himself, shoving an armload of slick plastic out of the way. More cards slipped and fluttered down, re-filling the indenture Crane had made. His hands curled into fists. _Stupid, stupid, stupid—_ Just then, the Riddler's arrogant voice crackled over the intercom, giving the mad professor a perfect outlet for his irritation.

"Temper, temper, Mr. Wayne. I can just see the headlines now—'Billionaire Assaults Man in Warehouse Maze.' Of course, that's assuming you actually make it out of the warehouse maze… which I _highly _doubt will happen."

"**Arrogant fool!" **Scarecrow screeched at the ceiling. **"Forget the riddles and kill him now. Make him **_**sufferrrr…" **_he laughed, a dark, rough sound. _**"I **_**will make him suffer… I will see him writhe in terror…" **A handful of playing cards went flying over Scarecrow's shoulder. **"You owe me five farthings… ha ha ha, say the bells of St. Martin's!" **

"Mmmm, ambitious, aren't we? What goes up must come down, but what goes down often comes back up!" the Riddler chuckled.

Scarecrow scowled. That pompous ass! He could clue Robin in all he liked to his own crimes, but giving him warning of Scarecrow's approach…

"But I must say," the Riddler continued, oblivious to Scarecrow's growing ire, "Batman's extended absence is a most puzzling riddle. Any ideas?... Exactly. As the Mad Hatter so accurately put it—where's Batman? I'll need an answer quickly… and so, my friend, will you."

Scarecrow snickered, prodding at the mass of cards with his scythe. Riddler was far too arrogant to ask politely—no, he had to frame it in a riddle.

"And that," Crane remarked dryly, "is why he'll never be able to retire. His idiotic obsession—no, make that _compulsion_—to leave riddles… even _I _would have sent him to Arkham! I believe his compulsion stems from a combination of three rather common phobias—"

"That's quite the grip you have there, Mr. Wayne," Riddler interrupted. Crane rolled his eyes and tried to ignore Nygma's gloating.

"Autophobia, athazagoraphobia, and stultophobia," he continued. There were only a few handfuls of cards standing between him and the next maze door; he sent a large pile flying with a well-aimed kick. Riddler was going on about something, probably taunting Robin and that moronic billionaire with yet another purposeless riddle. "The first is quite evident in his costume. Although the case can be made that all the 'Rogues' suffer from autophobia to some extent, it is obvious that Nygma—"

"Scarecrow?" Riddler scoffed, instantly catching Crane's attention. "Don't make me laugh! That overweening ignoramus?" Scarecrow's eyes narrowed dangerously, and his hands tightened around his scythe blade. "Killer Moth cuts a more frightening figure!"

**HOW DARE HE! **Scarecrow exploded. **Overbearing, egotistic, conceited little FOOL! **

"If it weren't for my formidable intellect, those two would still be rotting in Arkham!" Riddler boasted.

Scarecrow swatted away the remaining playing cards, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked it open.

**With silver **_**bells, **_**and cockle-shells, and **_**pretty maids**_** all in a row! **he hissed balefully.

The maze was in ruins, with larger-than-life playing cards strewn everywhere. It was a bizarre sight, especially just coming from a room full of ordinary playing cards, but Scarecrow hardly noticed. He whipped his head around, searching for any signs of Robin or Wayne or—

A grey-haired woman in a long, green dress was cautiously backing out of the wreckage, her eyes fixed on something in the wrecked maze. It was the proprietress of the tea house. Scarecrow cackled silently in dark anticipation. Hefting his scythe into his left hand, he crept up noiselessly behind the woman, paused for a second to savor the moment, and pounced. A bony hand was suddenly clapped over the lady's mouth, while the scythe's gleaming blade pressed lightly against her neck.

"**Mary, Mary, quite contrary," **Scarecrow rasped in her ear. The woman's body went rigid with terror, and she screamed into Scarecrow's hand, sending the insane professor into spasms of silent laughter. Oh, this was too easy.

"Make a sound, and I will _cut off your head,"_ Crane whispered softly.

The woman went limp. Crane chuckled to himself. _And the good lady faints. Not even Batman could incapacitate an enemy with less trouble, _he snickered, dragging the woman's unconscious form back through the door and depositing her roughly in the mounds of playing cards. Experience had taught him that unsecured, unterrorized citizens tended to interfere with his work. There was nothing Crane hated more than an unexpected variable ruining his experiment. _Except, perhaps, arrogant, delusional, overweening idiots like Edward Nygma, _Crane thought grimly. Closing the door securely behind him, he crept silently back into the maze, his eyes flicking over every detail of the room. It was low-ceilinged, dimly lit, very large, and filled with overturned maze panels. _Low ceilings give the impression of smallness, yet the room is large, combining the sense of dread from knowing one is trapped with the innate fear of being alone in an open area, _he mused. _And this dusky lighting is perfect—just enough to alert one's senses to danger and bring out the shadows, yet not enough to be reassuring. I could hardly have asked for a better setting!_

He caught sight of several figures in the gloom ahead, and instinctively slowed. The surprise from an unexpected attack always added so much to a victim's fear, and, besides, the last thing he needed was to be tied up again in front of Riddler.

"Riddler!" a hoarse voice cried. Crane cursed silently. So the Boy Blunder had managed to subdue Jervis Tetch. The miserable Hatter was sprawled on the floor, arms twisted uncomfortably behind him and eyes wild. Suddenly, the Mad Hatter caught sight of Scarecrow in the shadows. "The moon was shining sulkily because she thought the sun HAD GOT NO BUSINESS TO BE THERE **AFTER THE DAY WAS DONE!" **he shouted desperately, and broke off coughing.

Crane shook his head. He understood Tetch's warning well enough, but he had unfinished business with Robin and then the Riddler. But the Hatter's cough… Crane's eyes narrowed as it subsided, and a dark thread trailed down Tetch's chin. Crane winced and clenched his teeth. Unlike Batman, it appeared that the Bat-brat had no qualms about seriously injuring a Rogue. While the Mad Hatter was certainly a formidable opponent when he had his mind-control victims nearby, he was no Killer Croc in a fight. Crane made a mental note to do something extra horrific to Robin before horrifying him into insanity, and stepped quietly behind a nearby card panel.


	24. Chapter 24

Robin bounded through the door, easily dodging a trapdoor which opened suddenly beneath him, and cartwheeling around a grisly-looking set of iron spikes in the wall to his left.

"Hey diddle diddle, it's time for a riddle," the Riddler said, suddenly appearing on the wall behind Robin. "Don't worry, I'll go easy on you. This one's so easy, a child could solve it!"

The Riddler disappeared, replaced by a scrolling text in green and purple letters.

WHAT'S SOMETIMES WHITE

AND ALWAYS WRONG

IT CAN HEAL A HURT

IT CAN HARM THE STRONG

IT CAN BUILD UP LOVE

OR TEAR IT DOWN

IT CAN BRING A SMILE

BUT MORE OFTEN, A FROWN

Robin thought hard. Sometimes _white… _it can bring a smile or a frown… more often a frown… something wrong… something _white_…

"It's a lie!" he shouted. Immediately, the floor beneath him flipped around into a new corridor. A blinking arrow pointed him to his right.

"A lucky guess!" the Riddler snapped, but Robin was already off down the hallway. He wondered what Batman would do. Probably the Dark Knight would find some way to circumvent the maze, or sneak straight to the command console… which he was, in all probability, running _away _from. But on the other hand, Riddler had a tendency to duck out and sneak away while his "opponents" were in the maze. Maybe he should be focusing on where Riddler would go from here, instead of assuming that Nygma was somewhere in the maze. Or maybe he should focus on making it out alive.

Robin skidded to a stop in front of three doors. They were the same dull grey metal Nygma had used in his Minotaur maze; Robin couldn't help wondering if Riddler had re-used the maze. The door to his right was marked RISE, the door in the center read SHINE, and the door on the left said SET. Robin frowned. It was fairly obvious what should go before each word, but he wasn't sure exactly how to input the answer.

"Sun?" he said aloud, but there was no mocking reply from the Riddler this time. "Um… let's see, sun, sol, uh, fire, sky…"

"You'd better hurry, Robin," the Riddler interrupted dryly. "By my estimation, Ted Torrance has a little over fifteen minutes to live."

Robin gulped.

"The answer is sun!" he shouted. "Son? Um… child? Me?"

No answer.

"Well, they say if you can't answer a question, skip it and go to an easier one," Robin muttered. He grabbed the middle door and yanked it open. Flames roared out of the door, and Robin had to throw himself out of the way, landing hard on the cold cement floor.

"Wrong answer, Bat-brat," came the Riddler's mocking voice. "Looks like you chose the loser's door!"

Robin leaped up and flung open the door to the right. Iron bars dropping out of the ceiling, trapping him in a metal cage.

"I do not reward wild guessing," the Riddler snapped.

Robin pulled a miniature acetylene torch from his utility belt. Making a mental note to thank Batman for the design one more time, he held it close to the cage, looked away, and flicked the switch. In a few moments, the heavy-duty iron bar clattered to the floor, and Robin started in on the next bar. The heat from the central door was becoming unbearable, like the door to an open furnace, and he quickly cut through two, three, four bars, until the aperture widened enough to allow him passage.

As soon as Robin stepped outside the cage, the floor spun around again, nearly knocking him off balance, and Robin found himself in yet another hallway. This one, however, looked slightly different; instead of two sheet-metal walls, one side of the corridor was rough concrete, darkened with age and water and scrawled with gruesome threats, indecent pictures, and epithets than cannot be printed. Robin was on the edge of the maze. Instinctively, he looked up and was rewarded by the sight of a large, rusted grate covering a ventilation shaft.

A metallic growl brought his attention back to the maze. Glancing behind him, Robin caught sight of an enormous metal griffin heading his way. That settled it. Riddler _was _reusing the old maze set from the Riddle of the Minotaur. A blast of fire from the griffin's mouth made Robin jump sideways. Before it could blow flames again, Robin pulled the grappling gun from his belt, took careful aim at the ventilation shaft, and fired. The powerful winch pulled him up just as the griffin belched fire, incinerating the area he had stood a second ago. Robin wiped his brow and breathed a sigh of relief. Pulling off the ancient grate, he lifted himself up into the shaft and crawled into the air duct, coughing a little as his movement stirred up several decades' worth of dust.

"Oh, how original," the Riddler said disdainfully. "Still trying to cheat the Riddler, are we? I can flood that shaft with fear toxin with the touch of a button."

"Thanks for the warning," Robin replied, and reached for his gas mask. Strapping it around his nose and mouth, he continued crawling through the duct, his every movement accompanied by small puffs of dust. Presently he came to another shaft with a grate at the bottom, this one overlooking another part of the maze. It was rather interesting, seeing it from above, and Robin chuckled at the sight of spring-loaded spike bed ready to impale the maze runner. Cold air began shifting through the duct; even through the mask, it retained a biting, sour smell. Riddler's threat had not been an idle one.

"This is nothing less than cheating!" Riddler shouted. "Leave the duct immediately, or Ted Torrance meets his maker!"

Robin scooted hastily down the duct to the next shaft. This one overlooked the room before the card maze entrance… where Scarecrow should have been lying handcuffed. Unfortunately, the room was completely empty save a spent Batarang, a pair of empty handcuffs, and a few wisps of straw. Robin groaned. He hated it when a captured villain got loose again. It meant they had that much more incentive not to let Robin get the drop on them, and made recapture a nightmare.

"Well?" Riddler snapped. "Do you want to have Torrance's blood on your hands?"

Robin thought quickly. Either Riddler had escaped and was far away in an airplane or private limousine headed for the Gotham city limits, in which case the threat was a bluff, or he was still in the maze, probably the control center Scarecrow had dragged him to. In either case, it made sense to retrace his steps to the control center, either to recapture Riddler or use the computer to locate first Torrance, and then Riddler. Robin swung himself over the edge of the shaft and dropped lightly into the empty corridor.


	25. Chapter 25

"You can't go backwards!" the Riddler protested. "That's cheating, you know!"

"I thought you said cheating was crawling through the air ducts," Robin replied. "I'll jump back in and skip the whole maze if that'd make you feel better."

There was a long moment of silence; Robin took the opportunity to slip back through the corridor into a… nother hallway? This wasn't right; he should be seeing the entrance to the "control room." Remembering how the floor and wall had spun around, Robin carefully examined the steel wall of the maze, running his fingers lightly over the cool metal. There should be a door here, somewhere… his fingers scraped over a small crack in the paneling, no wider than a thread. Robin glanced down; there was a similar crack running over part of the floor. He threw his shoulders against the wall, half-expecting it to stick. To his surprise, it immediately swiveled around, and Robin found himself in a narrow, dark space between the maze's outer wall and the bare wooden frame of Scarface's hideout. Suppressing a smile, Robin crept quietly past the dusty wooden frame and cement support pillars to a small, battered door. It was locked, but easily went down with a well-aimed kick.

"If you take another step, I will electrocute Ted Torrance!" came the Riddler's frantic voice from the maze. "Don't move, Robin!"

Robin smiled easily. The room beyond the door was dimly lit, but he could easily make out the bound figure of a man slumped against a half-disassembled computer console. At the sudden light, the man looked up, tried to stand up, and fell over sideways. No wires, no triggers, no tripwires… there was no way Riddler could make good on his threat.

"I'm calling your bluff, Riddler," Robin said confidently, and walked into the room. Ted Torrance was struggling against his bonds, but couldn't make a sound through the thick gag. Robin knelt down and quickly released him. "And now I'm coming for you!"

"Sorry, Robin," the Riddler's voice echoed from the maze. "You may have surprised my plans this time, but I always think ahead. Foresight, you see, is the essence of true intelligence. A truly brilliant mind must be able to— oh dear, it appears my less-than-brilliant colleague is somewhat upset. My dear Scarecrow, I told you I had a backup console, but I didn't say where it was! I declare our partnership ended, and if you can get Hatter out of those handcuffs, I'll wish you both good luck getting out of the maze. I'd say I have to go, but since I've already gone, that would be redundant! Gentlemen, it has been interesting, but you'll have to excuse me now."

The Riddler's voice went silent. From somewhere off in the maze, there was a shriek of anger, followed by a long tenor scream. Robin sighed.

"It just never stops, does it?" he muttered, and headed back out the door in the direction of the screaming.

Scarecrow drew a deep breath, his thin frame still shaking slightly with rage. He hadn't been this angry in a long, long time. He wasn't sure if he'd ever been this angry before. But it was time to put petty catharsis, and now he had to focus. The Riddler had effectively trapped him inside the maze, and he had to find a way out.

**Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye, **Scarecrow whispered murderously. **Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie…**

"Uh, boss?" the big thug—the same Scarecrow had brought with him to help carry Wayne out of the tea room—asked nervously. Scarecrow turned on him with a snarl, causing the muscular man to recoil a few inches.

"**What?" **he spat.

"Uh, um, I just… what are we going to do?" the thug stammered.

"**Shut up," **Scarecrow snarled. **"If you had the slightest glimmer of intelligence, you would have noticed that I am trying to think! Now cease your chatter and let me be. Four and twenty blackbirds… hm, yes…"**

"Jonathan," the Hatter gasped through another coughing fit. "You've got to get out of here."

Scarecrow only shot the Englishman a withering glare. He knew that Tetch was in a lot of pain—a punctured lung was serious, and the man needed a doctor as quickly as possible. Crane would have felt sorry for him, possibly tried to help him out of the handcuffs, but Scarecrow was far too angry. He was beyond angry by now—he was furious.

"**Shut up," **he hissed, turning away. The Mad Hatter's shoulders slumped, and he studied the ground sadly. Scarecrow was past caring by now. He needed to find a way out of here, get access to a decent chemical plant, and track down that lying, traitorous, egotistical maniac as soon as possible. And, of course, avoid the Boy Blunder on the way out.

The Scarecrow's malevolent gaze fell on his hired goon. The unfortunate man fidgeted nervously under Scarecrow's scrutiny, but didn't dare to move or ask another question. Without warning, Scarecrow ripped off his hat and tossed it at the thug.

"**Put this on," **he rasped, handing over his scythe as well. **"I'm leaving. When our little friend arrives…"**

Scarecrow cackled softly, running one bony finger across his throat. The thug swallowed hard and nodded.

"Whatever you say, boss," he said. "What about him?"

He nudged the Hatter with a foot. Tetch moaned softly and glared at the thug.

"This jabberwo—" he began, but Scarecrow shook his head impatiently.

"**Leave him! Stand back there, in the shadow… yes, yes, as soon as he comes in, it will be off with his head."**

Scarecrow glanced at the Mad Hatter as he ended, but the British villain was scowling at the muscle-bound henchman, and didn't seem to hear Scarecrow's conciliatory quote.

"What about, uh, Wayne?" the thug asked, trying to ignore the Hatter's evil looks.

"**Pah! Don't worry about that cowering fool!" **the Scarecrow snapped. **"I'm sure little Robin Red-breast will catch him and take him to the hospital. Perhaps in time, perhaps not… the mind can only take so much, you know…" **he cackled gleefully, rubbing his thin hands together. **"And when I find **_**Riddler… **_**he shall truly know the nature of Fear! Oh yes, he will plead and scream, he will beg me to stop, but I will—"**

A sudden clatter of metal on concrete arrested the Scarecrow's rant. He glanced over his shoulder, motioned the thug into a dark corner, and ran lightly through the far door, out of the card maze.

_**Who saw Cock-robin die? I, said the Fly, with my little eye, I saw him die…**_


	26. Chapter 26

Robin paused at the entrance to the "right door" room and leaned on the doorframe to catch his breath. Even for a trained vigilante, the constant running and dodging and ducking and leaping he had had to perform tonight was draining. Not to mention the effects of Scarecrow's fear gas… Robin breathed deeply, wiping a few beads of sweat from his forehead. Another terror-filled scream echoed from the maze, prompting Robin to cut his rest short and start moving again. He sincerely hoped that the scream belonged to Joe or the Mad Hatter… he shuddered at the memory of his own time under the gas's influence. What was worse, Bruce might start screaming about Joker or calling for Robin, and the billionaire's precarious secret would be out.

"There you are! Oh, thank goodness! I've been calling and calling for hours!" a thin, quavering voice broke in on Robin's thoughts. Looking up, he saw a short, plump woman in a green evening dress, wiping tears away from her wrinkled face.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Robin said. "I'm after the Scarecrow."

"He almost killed me!" the woman wept. "He came up behind me and put his scythe right next to my _neck_… I nearly died of fright!"

_Which probably made Scarecrow very happy_, Robin thought grimly.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said gently, moving her aside. "Do you have a cell phone? Please call the police and, uh, stay here. It's, um, safer."

Thus saying, he slipped through the right door and into the dimness of the card maze. The overturned card panels threw long geometric shadows on the floor, on the walls, on each other… it was the perfect setting for a Scarecrow. Robin approached the wrecked maze very carefully, treading softly, his ears attentive to any and every sound. It would be very like Scarecrow to conceal himself somewhere in the maze and then leap out, cackling hysterically and blanketing the area with fear toxin. There was a soft scuffing in one corner. Robin turned immediately, searching the shadowy corner with his eyes. There was nothing.

A low, rough hacking caught Robin's attention. Turning, he saw the Mad Hatter's prostrate form lying in a dim circle of light, alone. Robin approached him, slowly and carefully.

"Robin!" the Hatter gasped, spitting out blood. "Help, help!"

Robin cringed at the sight of the dark liquid spattering the cement in front of Hatter. The little Englishman's eyes were wide and wild, and kept darting from side to side. With the exception of Harley and Ivy, the Rogues tended to fight amongst themselves both inside Arkham and out. Robin wouldn't put it past Scarecrow to gas the Mad Hatter and leave him as bait in some sort of—

A movement in the shadows caught Robin's eye, and he turned just in time to see a felt-hatted figure advancing on him with a scythe.

"Not again," Robin groaned. Just then, the figure stepped into the light. "You're not Scarecrow!" Robin exclaimed.

The scythe suddenly came up and whistled through the air, a good deal faster than it had in Scarecrow's hands.

"Aw… heck," Robin muttered, ducking as the blade flew over his head.

In the hands of the spindly professor, the scythe was little more than a theme weapon; this fellow could foreseeable decapitate someone with it. Leaping sideways, he lashed out at the thug's head, but merely succeeded in knocking off the battered felt hat. Joe snarled at him and whirled the scythe around, the tip catching Robin in the shoulder and sending him reeling. A sharp, quick pain jolted through Robin's shoulder, but he shoved it down and aimed another punch at Joe. The burly thug blocked it and kicked him hard, sending the Boy Wonder flying through the air and rolling to a stop a few feet from the Mad Hatter.

"Robin," wheezed Tetch, his teeth bloody. "Robin…"

Robin rolled away as the scythe came crashing down, dislodging a few chunks of aged concrete. As he rolled, his bare arm touched something smooth and cold and flat. Snatching the object, Robin leaped up and faced the muscular henchman warily. Joe rubbed his hand ruefully, still smarting from the scythe's recoil with the cement floor. Robin glanced down at his find. A small, rectangular piece of metal lay in his hand, one side a mass of tiny circuitry, the other smooth and white and neatly lettered. It was one of the Mad Hatter's 10/6 cards.

Raising the scythe, Joe charged Robin. The vigilante neatly sidestepped the thug and leapt onto his back, smacking the card onto the thug's bald head. Instantly, Joe stopped, the scythe falling from stiff fingers.

"Oh… well done…" the Mad Hatter panted. His breath was fast and shallow, his eyes wide with shock. "Well done…"

Robin knelt by the Englishman.

"Hatter," he said. "Where's Bruce Wayne?"

"Wayne?" Tetch said blankly. "I hardly know, sir…"

Robin grimaced.

"Which way did he go?"

"'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' replied the Cat," Tetch recited seriously. "'In _that _direction,' said the Cat, waving its right paw round, 'lives a Hatter: and in _that _direction,' waving the other paw, 'lives a March Hare. Visit either you like; they're both mad.'"

Having spoken, the Hatter subsided into a coughing fit. Small flecks of crimson liquid spattered the floor, tiny flecks of color against the dull grey concrete. Robin sighed and stood up.

"The ambulance should be here soon," he told the Hatter. Jervis Tetch took no notice of him, and lapsed into a painful recitation of "You are Old, Father William."

Robin removed a small flashlight from his belt and shone it around the maze. Finding the henchman and the Hatter relatively unharmed meant that… he swallowed hard. The scream of terror had probably belonged to Bruce Wayne. Now, he had to find him and give him the antidote before Bruce let slip an enormous secret or, what was worse, stumbled into one of Riddler's death traps.


	27. Chapter 27

"**Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye," **Scarecrow rasped, threading his way nimbly through the narrow aperture between the maze and the warehouse wall. **"Four and twenty blackbirds, **_**baked **_**in a pie." **

Reaching under his tattered coat, he gently touched the smooth curve of the metal canister nestled between coat and shirt. Scarecrow's stitched face split into a jagged smile as he imagined pulling it out, shaking it, pressing the button, and watching Edward Nygma collapse into shrieks and screams. What would he see? A book full of riddles, to which none of he knew the answer? An entire world passing him by, ignoring him, dismissing his as the insignificant little weasel he really was? Killer Croc solving a puzzle faster than him? Scarecrow snickered a little at this last thought. He relished the thought of Nygma's arrogant face contorted with fear, eyes bulging in terror, stammering out pleas for mercy…

Scarecrow rounded the final corner and found himself standing in front of a slightly crooked door, heavily bolted and armed with two crossbars. All that stood between him and freedom was a few puny locks. Extracting a long, flexible wire from the seam of his right sleeve, Scarecrow knelt down and began working on the first padlock.

"**When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing," **Scarecrow hummed. **"To sing… ha ha, yes… wasn't that a dainty **_**dish…" **_A few violent turns of the wire, and the padlock dropped off. Scarecrow immediately moved on to the next one, inserted the thin wire and twisting it expertly. **"To set before a king?" **The second lock went much more quickly, opening after only a few seconds, and the straw man picked the third with similar success. **"The king was in his counting-house, counting out his money," **he rasped, removing the third padlock and picking at the fourth. **"The queen was in the garden… eating bread and honey." **The fourth and final padlock dropped off, and Scarecrow struggled to lift the first of the two crossbars. **"The maid—was in the garden—" **he grunted, setting it carefully by the door and moving to the second. **"Hanging—out—the clothes—" **he breathed a long sigh of relief, placed his hand on the doorknob, and whispered, **"When down flew a blackbird… and nipped off her nose!" **

Scarecrow wrenched the door open and stepped outside, laughing softly to himself. His breath curled up in small, frosty puffs, the cold air seeped through the burlap's loose knit and stung his lips and eyelids, but it hardly registered. All he could think about was… _Riddler. _

"**Down flew a blackbird," **he repeated maliciously, **"and nipped **_**off **_**his nose, ha ha!"**

A metallic click stopped him in his tracks. Looking up, the Scarecrow found himself staring into the barrel of a police-issue revolver. Behind it stood a thick-shouldered man in a wrinkled trenchcoat, a toothpick clamped firmly between his teeth.

"All right, Scarefreak," ordered Harvey Bullock. "You're under arrest. Now raise 'em!"

Scarecrow couldn't help a low snicker. Did this bumbling little fool of a detective honestly think he could stop the Scarecrow?

"**Oh, how amusing," **the straw man sneered, backing away slowly into his own dark shadow. A thin hand slid into his jacket. **"I am the Master of Fear, the Avatar of Terror! All that made you shake as a child, all that dark shadows that terrified you as an adult, even that hidden terror you think no one knows about—I am that! I am… **_**Fear, himself! **_**Look on me, ye mortals, and despair!"**

Cackling, the Scarecrow pulled out the canister of fear toxin and liberally doused Harvey Bullock's fat face with pumpkin-orange fog.

"Commish! We need a S.W.A.T. team here, now!" choked Bullock, falling back. "Commish? Comm—OH, NOOOOO!"

The burly detective dropped his sidearm and his radio and ran out of the alley, screaming at the top of his lungs. Scarecrow's thin frame shook with fiendish glee. Oh, to see that wonderful, marvelous, _beautiful _expression on the detective's face once more! It had been just the right combination of startledness, horror, shock, and raw fear. Scarecrow would never tire of that. He especially loved seeing it on large, physically imposing men like Bullock because they always acted so strong, so sure of themselves, so impervious to threat… he looked forward to seeing it grace Edward Nygma's face for the same reasons.

"He's down here! Come quickly!" a voice shouted from the far end of the ally.

**Fools! **Scarecrow scoffed. **Fear cannot be contained, or dismissed, or controlled!**

Running lightly to the far end of the alley, he readied himself for the next attack, canister poised to put the fear of Scarecrow into the first to enter the ally. He did not have long to wait. Within a few minutes, heavy footsteps echoed outside the ally. Scarecrow's eyes narrowed, and he grinned silently with anticipation. Wait for it… wait for it… wait…

The first figure appeared just inside the alley. Launching himself from the shadows, Scarecrow grabbed the back of the unfortunate policeman's head with one hand and jammed the nozzle of the canister in the man's face with the other, spraying the toxin directly into the man's… gas mask? A feeling of misgiving swept through the Scarecrow moments before the police officer swatted away the canister of fear toxin and seized the gangly villain by the arms.

"It's all right, I've got him," he relayed to others.

Scarecrow shrieked in frustration.

"**Release me!" **he screeched, jerking wildly in a futile attempt to escape the officer's grip. **"You should be trembling before me, for I am Scarecrow, all-powerful God of Fear!"**

"Handcuffs, quick. Hold still, sir, we're going to—ah! No, I'm fine, he just bit me. Is the straitjacket on the way? I wanna get this nut back to Arkham as soon as possible."

"_**Nooooo!" **_Scarecrow cried, as two solid officers took hold of his handcuffed arms and dragged him out of the alley. **"Four and twenty blackbirds… I am the Master of Fear, the Lord of Despair, the Terror of Gotham! Fall on your faces before me and cower in horror and anguish, pitiful—**what's that? I don't need that. No, stop! **I am fear incarnate! Worship me, you fools, worship meeee!" **


	28. Chapter 28

Harvey Bullock was not happy. If there was anything the burly detective disliked, it was costumed nuts running wild in Gotham City; and while the past few weeks had been relatively nut-free, the nutjob population of Gotham (and it was a sizeable one) was putting forth a tremendous effort to make up for it tonight. First there had been that small matter of the trivia show—Bullock gritted his teeth and moved his toothpick to the other side of his mouth at the memory of his humiliation at Robin's hands. He'd already chewed out Robinson, Jones, and O'Sullivan for not finding that scrambler first, and would have started in on Montoya but for his strong sense of self-preservation. The old curmudgeon in charge of the studio had given Bullock an awful lot of guff, too, returning without his daughter about ten minutes after he left to sermonize Bullock about the corruption of the Gotham PD and the horrible effects of a high-calorie diet. Bullock had wanted nothing more than to tell the old man to stuff it, but some Ryder fellow had been standing mere feet away with a news camera, and Gordon had already had "a little talk" with Bullock about giving the media a negative image…

Then there had been the shark incident. Some looney tune in a shark costume (God only knew where these people got their clothing from) had attacked the Lee Ki Shipyards by the docks and left… Bullock groaned and rubbed his throbbing temple… a riddle behind, prompting Bullock to rush to the shipyards at double speed. Unfortunately, the "riddle" had turned out to be a vulgar two-line insult involving pigs, combat boots, and Commissioner Gordon's mother. The attack on the shipyards had been completely unconnected to the Riddler's invasion of "Guess Gotham and Go" (or whatever the show was called), and Bullock had wasted forty minutes of driving time.

Then there had been the newscast about the Gotham Square kidnappings. Ex-professor Jonathan Crane had showed up in the middle of the shopping district, right smack in the middle, and gassed several dozen people before anyone could do anything. Bullock champed down on the toothpick angrily. If the police department got wind of half the incidents before the press did, there'd be no crime in Gotham! _"Scarecrow" _had kidnapped Bruce Wayne—and while Bullock publicly scoffed at the millionaire's playboy reputation, he privately recognized Wayne as one of the city's few unfallen heroes, a bright spot against darkness that seemed to pervade Gotham City. Not to mention he was the number-one most well known Gothamite… well, make that most well known uncostumed Gothamite. Between the Rogues and that lunatic Batman… Bullock shook his head. Seriously, what kind of man went around dressed like a giant _bat? _It couldn't be healthy.

"Sir?"

Bullock half-turned, toothpick clamped firmly between his teeth. It was Robinson, one of the younger officers. He looked nervous, rumpled, and sleep-deprived, three hallmarks of a Gotham policeman.

"What?" Bullock snapped irritably.

"The perimeter's set up… O'Sullivan, um, wants to see you."

Bullock sighed, removed the toothpick, and nodded.

"Send him here."

Robinson immediately retreated, returning seconds later with a tall, sallow-faced officer in tow. Bullock had never liked O'Sullivan; he was like a mechanic's kitchen floor—slick, oily, and squeaky clean. There were rumors he was on the take, just as there were rumors about nearly every Gotham police officer, but never anything enough to prove. Harvey Bullock scowled as the dark-haired officer flashed him a too-wide grin.

"Hey, Harvey," he said smoothly.

Bullock's scowl deepened.

"Whaddya want?" he demanded.

O'Sullivan's grin dropped, and he took a deep, thoughtful breath.

"Okay," he said finally. "Okay. I want to know what the heck we're doing out here, freezing our bums off outside a warehouse that hasn't been used in years. You should know where we are—this is the right on the edge of Thorne's turf and the Falcones' operation! This is not a safe place to be!"

Bullock snorted. So that's what was bothering O'Sullivan. Probably, some of his less-than-upstanding "friends" had noticed the police cordon and were getting uneasy.

"Cool yer jets," Bullock grunted. "The Commish got an 'anonymous police tip' that Riddler, Scarecrow, and maybe that Tetch dirtbag are hidin' out in there."

"An anonymous police tip! You know how reliable those are!" objected O'Sullivan.

"Naw, you weren't listening. Try again. The _Commish _got an _'anonymous police tip,'"_ Bullock scoffed. O'Sullivan still looked confused and unhappy. "Batman, you nitwit."

"Sir! Sir!"

Bullock groaned. It was Robinson. Again.

"What now?"

Robinson came rushing up, wide-eyed and sweating. He shot a nervous glance at O'Sullivan before confiding.

"There's a door. In the alley back there. Um, I think someone's coming out!"

Bullock dropped his toothpick and nodded, his heart starting to pick up.

"Good work, Robinson. I want O'Sullivan—" he stopped, eyeing the dark-haired man warily. "I want you and O'Sullivan to get me a SWAT team, fast as possible. We're going to grab whoever it is back there and make an official arrest without any help from the Commissioner's pet Bat. Got it?"

"Yes sir!" Robinson practically shouted.

O'Sullivan looked less than thrilled, but skulked along behind Robinson as the young detective rushed back to the squad car radio. Bullock took a deep breath and strode down the narrow alley, planting himself about halfway in against the decaying brick and quietly unholstering his gun. The door was already open, and a dim figure was standing outside the door… pulling on a string? After thirty seconds of consistent string-pulling, the figure took out a key and began clicking a series of locks into place. Bullock breathed softly, and waited.

"And that finishes that," the dark silhouette remarked to himself, sounding remarkably smug. "Eddie my boy, you're a genius. By the time Robin figures out that little bluff, I'll be—"

Harvey Bullock stepped out of the shadows, gun in hand.

"You're under arrest!" he barked.

"Dear me," the Riddler mused, his face hidden by deep shadow. "So you think you can—"

"I ain't the Bat," Bullock interrupted, as Riddler's hand crept towards his lapel. "Put 'em up and keep 'em up, or I will shoot."

"Shoot? My dear sir, think of the publicity! Killing an—er—suspect in cold blood!" the Riddler scoffed.

"I said shoot, not kill," Bullock snapped. A light, eager footstep behind him told him that Robinson had returned. "Now lay down on yer face and put yer arms behind you."

The Riddler complied, albeit sulkily.

"It's '_lie _down on your face and put your arms behind you,'" he complained, as Robinson clicked the cuffs around his wrist. "Really, if you must take me in, you might use proper grammar and sentence structure! Wait, no, that's mine. That's my cane!"

Robinson gingerly rolled the cane out of reach and started helping the Riddler to his feet. With a snort of disgust, Harvey Bullock lowered his gun, reached forward, and pulled off the green bowler and purple domino mask. The mysterious Riddler faded into the pale, unattractive face of Edward Nygma.

"Who told you I was here? No one was supposed to know! It was Scarface, wasn't it? Or Batman… he must have known, somehow. Who was it?" Nygma demanded.

"Put him in the car and haul him to Blackgate," Bullock ordered.

"Shouldn't we call Arkham?" Robinson asked.

"Why aren't you listening to me?" howled Nygma. "Look—I'll bargain with you. I know where Scarecrow is! Tell me how you found me, and I'll tell you where to find him!"

Bullock's eyes lit up. Capturing both Riddler _and _Scarecrow single-handedly… it could mean good publicity, more weight in the department meetings, maybe even a promotion! And it would prove once and for all that Harvey Bullock was perfectly capable of working alone, _without _a dark-caped lunatic watching over his every move.

"All right," Bullock said, rubbing his chin. "Talk."

"I saw Scarecrow on the monitor—right through there," Nygma said in a rush. "In a few moments, he'll be emerging from that door. It's the emergency exit. All you have to do is wait here. Now tell me."

"Batman called the Commissioner," Robinson said before Bullock could say anything. "He said we'd find you here."

Edward Nygma looked distinctly disappointed.

"Oh," he sighed. "So he really is out there."

Bullock gave the criminal mastermind a dubious look.

"You bet he's out there," he said. "But you won't be 'out there' for a good long time. O'Sullivan! Take this nutjob to the car."

"And straight to Blackgate," O'Sullivan added maliciously.

"Keep an eye on 'im, though," Bullock added, as O'Sullivan led the handcuffed Riddler away.

"Oh, you know me, Detective," O'Sullivan replied.

As soon as he was out of hearing range, he added, "Fathead." Then, in a loud, officious voice, he added, "All right, Mr. Nygma, let's get you to Blackgate."


	29. Chapter 29

"Bruce?" Robin called wearily.

The wreckage of the card maze lay eerily silent. The Mad Hatter's shallow hacking and disjointed Carroll quotes had slowed and fallen quiet a few minutes ago, along with the tea lady's quiet encouragements to said villain. Even the aged concrete, damp with years of moisture, no longer carried an echo. Robin sighed. His body was beginning to ache with exhaustion. The adrenalin had worn off long ago, and he found himself exhausted, aching, hungry, and in desperate need of a restroom. But he couldn't stop. Someone had to track down Bruce and give him the antidote as quickly as possible; someone also had to call an ambulance, administer CPR, or otherwise get the Hatter some medical attention, also as quickly as possible; someone had to chase down Scarecrow before he began formulating his noxious toxins, and Riddler before the entire Gotham traffic system was flashing in some sort of complicated semaphore code; someone had to—

A soft scuffing in the corner broke into Robin's thoughts.

_Oh geez. With my luck, that will probably be Scarecrow getting ready to attack me with that stupid scythe again. _

Robin shifted his stance slightly, preparing for more vigilante gymnastics, and adjusted the mask over his nose and mouth. Ironically, the mask had originally belonged to the Riddler, and it had fallen into the Boy Wonder's hand as a direct result of Scarecrow's attempt to spray the green-suited villain with fear toxin.

_Talk about shooting yourself in the foot… _

Something flickered in Robin's peripheral vision and he instinctively leaped forward, landing acrobatically in a sharp corner formed by two still-standing cards. The shadows—there were so many shadows, in the ruins of the Hatter's maze—were still. Robin scanned the shadows, his eyes flicking rapidly over the upturned panels, grey and dim in the poor lighting. Why the Mad Hatter hadn't replaced some of the bare light bulbs… then again, this was the Mad Hatter. For all Robin knew, the lights were purposely dim. If Carroll wrote about something like that into either of his books.

Another scuffing came from behind Robin, and he spun around, ready for action. A large and impressive stack of overturned card panels met his eye. The sturdy metal partitions had been knocked about randomly, as if a giant had swept his hand through the maze. Robin frowned. He didn't remember causing quite this much damage to the card maze, especially not in this area. A splash of color caught his eye, a single spot of crimson against the grey, and he knelt briefly to examine it. It was a drop of blood. Looking up, Robin spotted another drop, half-hidden in the shadow of an upended panel. He moved towards it, keeping a sharp eye out for any others. Grasping the cold metal panel in both hands, he carefully moved the panel aside. Unfortunately, moving the one panel caused several other overturned cards to shift, and two or three spades came sliding down to land with a hard, metallic clatter on the concrete.

"Who's there?"

Robin stopped and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Bruce. His voice was terrified, shaky, and almost an octave higher than the Bat-growl, but it was unmistakably the voice of Bruce Wayne. Now, if only it could be Bruce Wayne alone, and not Bruce Wayne and Scarecrow. Robin crossed his fingers and stepped towards the voice.

"Who's there? I'm not afraid of you!"

_Really? _Robin thought, rounding the stack of card piles and finally catching sight of the billionaire. _Well, you sure don't look like it, Mr. Wayne._

Bruce Wayne's hair was dark with sweat, plastered flat against his forehead; his eyes were wide and wild, and kept darting off to the sides. He lay flat on his stomach, his legs and the lower half of his back buried beneath steel card panel. Catching sight of Robin, Bruce tried to scrabble back into the pile of cards, his whole body shaking uncontrollably.

"Stay where you are!" he shouted harshly. "Don't move!"

"Bruce, calm down," Robin said, keeping his voice even. "I've got the antidote. Hold still and I'll—"

"Stay back!" Bruce snarled. Then his eyes widened even further, if possible, and he seemed to be staring past Robin, frozen with terror. "Scarecrow… scare… crow…"

Robin spun around immediately. If the lanky professor had returned to do battle… But there was no one there. Robin gulped and turned back to Bruce. The man's eyes were never still, roving over the walls behind Robin and darting suddenly to the other side, trying to catch sight of peripherally imagined terrors creeping from the shadows.

"Bruce. Bruce," Robin said, lowering his voice. "_Batman." _

No response.

"Stay… back…" Bruce whispered. "I am not a disgrace. I am a vengeance. I am the night!"

Robin gulped. He knew where this was headed, and it was the last possible thing he needed. If either Jervis Tetch or the tea house owner—or the Riddler, watching from someplace safe—heard the end of Bruce's rant… Robin moved quickly, pinning Bruce's arms with his legs and clapping a hand over the playboy's mouth.

"I am—MMMPTH!"

Bruce began to struggle, and Robin quickly pulled the antidote from his utility belt, inserted the syringe, and… Oh. Wonderful. By a marvelous stroke of luck, the brief struggle with Joe appeared to have completely shattered the glass bottle. Robin could have smacked himself for not noticing sooner. Suddenly, Bruce Wayne went completely limp beneath him; in the next minute, Robin went flying through the air. He really should have seen that one coming.

"I am not afraid of you," Bruce maintained, his voice ragged. "Give up, Scarecrow!"

Robin picked himself up from the floor, rubbing his shoulder. The useless antidote bottle and syringe had disappeared. Not that it mattered. There was only one thing to do now: subdue Bruce Wayne, take the antidote from _his _utility belt, and inject him before anyone stumbled in to hear another Batman rant.

"Bruce, listen to me!" Robin said. "I am not Scarecrow. I'm Robin! Look at me. You know me, right?"

Bruce shook his head.

"Your tricks will no longer work, Crane!"

"For the love of—" Robin stopped himself and tried again. "Look, I am Robin. Your sidek—your partner. Remember?"

Bruce stopped, his eyes focusing on Robin.

"That's right. Look at me. Look, I've got the R right here… does Scarecrow wear the cape? The mask? I'm Robin. And you've got to let me help you."

"Yes… all right…"

Robin heaved a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. I'm going to pull you out and get the antidote from your—" a sudden, terrible thought struck Robin midsentence. His utility belt. _Batman's _utility belt. Not Bruce Wayne's utility belt. Heck, Bruce Wayne didn't even have a utility belt! "Oh, no," he groaned.

"Robin… what's wrong?" Bruce breathed, his eyes darting to the shadows again. "What's going on?"

"Um… look…" Robin ran a hand through his hair. Okay, change of plans. No antidote… he could either A) try to talk Bruce down, which would inevitably end in at least one more _I-am-the-night _speech, possibly several, possibly in front of EMTs, newscasters, and unsympathetic police detectives; or B) knock Bruce out somehow, drag him to the Batmobile, and rush him back to Wayne Manor for Alfred to deal with. Robin was leaning considerably towards option B when Bruce spoke again.

"Robin."

The boy vigilante looked up. Bruce was staring at him intensely, his hands clenched into fists. Robin swallowed hard. If the billionaire was hallucinating again…

"Robin, listen," Bruce said in a low growl. It didn't sound right, Batman's voice coming from Bruce's mouth, but Robin listened. "Get Scarecrow and Riddler. I'll be all right, just get them."

"Look, Batman," Robin replied, dropping all pretenses. "Right now I'm more concerned for you. You, um, well… I don't want anyone to find out."

"It'll be all right," Bruce said, his voice morphing from a deep growl to a drawling baritone. "I promise. I've done this before, remember?"

"But if you… well, you were…" Robin stammered. "I don't think this is such a good idea."

"It will work," Bruce said, simply. "Trust me."

Robin somehow doubted that, recalling his own time spent under the influence of Crane's toxin, but he nodded and moved to help Bruce out of the pile of card panels.

"I'll be fine," Bruce said. "Don't worry about me. Just make sure Scarecrow and Riddler don't get away."

Robin paused for a moment, studying Bruce Wayne in the dim light. Certainly he seemed calm enough, calmer than a few seconds ago…

"Robin," Bruce said, his voice tinged with the Batman's, "Trust me. I can control myself not to give anything away—now. But I cannot apprehend two costumed villains… at least not without a costume myself. The city needs a hero. The city needs you."

Robin swallowed hard, but still hesitated.

"Besides," Bruce continued, a trace of humor coming into his voice, "Lately people haven't been taking my partner seriously. He shows up alone, and everybody's first question is, 'Where's Batman?' I've been sending him out on some solo patrols lately, you know, as training. Now, being a sensible Bat, I know that I can't live forever, and at some point I'm going to want to retire. Maybe someday he'll want to start a crime-fighting career of his own…" Bruce's voice trailed away, and when he spoke again, it was in Batman's deep growl. "And this is your chance to take them down… all by yourself."

Robin nodded, setting his jaw the way he'd seen Bruce—or, actually, Batman—do so many times.

"I will," he said.


	30. Chapter 30

"The sun was shining on the sea… shining with all his might…" Jervis Tetch recited painfully, and broke off into coughing. "He did… he did his _best_… to make the billows smooth and bright…"

More coughing, shallow and painful, ensued. Behind Tetch, the tea house proprietress crouched against the card panels and tried to ignore it. She was exhausted, could remember almost nothing of the day, had been kidnapped and dragged into a dank, dark who-knows-where, and had just discovered a long, ragged tear in her evening dress. Even if it could be mended, it would be sure to leave a long, ugly seam, making it unsuitable for the elegance demanded by a proper tea house. It had been her best dress, too, and she needed it and the hat… that hat that Robin had flattened to destroy the mind-control card on it. Sharp tears stung the woman's eyes. Today had been a rough day.

"And this was _odd," _Tetch continued slowly. "This was odd because… it was… the middle of…" He coughed twice and spat. "The middle of the night."

And now the person responsible was lying mere feet from her, spouting nonsense, while she had to crouch against cold metal and concrete and shiver in her thin dress. Her best dress, her working dress, the dress she needed to run her business, and it was being scratched against the filthy cement of… somewhere bad. Her family would be so worried… she wondered if her husband had been to the police yet. Perhaps he had, and they had investigated the tea house… the tea house! She almost wept at the thought. If that—that _criminal _had damaged it… they were all antique tea sets, real English china that had cost hundreds to put together. And there was lace, real lace, on the tablecloths, because a lady never uses machine-made lace, and real loose-leaf tea brewed the old-fashioned way, none of this new mass-made bagged stuff, and Edwardian silverware that had been her grandmother's… the Twining Rose Tea Room was irreplaceable! It wasn't some made-up, modern imitation of a tea room, it was the genuine article! …why, _why _couldn't they have picked another business to take over? Or even another tea room? It wasn't like there weren't others in town! The woman looked for a handkerchief to blow her nose and found that there was no handkerchief in her pocket any longer. She felt herself tearing up. She wasn't a bad person—she was a faithful wife, a good mother (and grandmother), a supporter of the Gotham Police Department, a devoted church-goer… Why, why, _why _did this have to happen to her?

"The moon was sh-shining s…" cough, cough. "Sulkily, because she…" the Mad Hatter twisted his head towards the woman and spoke almost apologetically. "Because… she thought the sun… had got no business to be there…" more coughing.

She looked at him, wiping away moisture from her eyes. Was that supposed to be an apology of some sort?

"After the day was done," he sighed, and went back to staring at the floor. "Now don't interrupt me; I'm going to tell you all your faults."

Apparently not. She sighed and shook her head. It was yet another instance of the horrible themed decay that was quickly overtaking Gotham City. She could still remember days—years ago, certainly, but still recallable—when she'd been able to visit places like the Double Dip, Laff City, or Competitron Supply without fear. Days when she'd sent her children trick-or-treating without having to worry about lunatics with burlap sacks on their heads, or gone out to dinner at the highly respectable Iceberg Lounge. Now, it appeared, she couldn't even run a tea shop in Gotham without making it a target for the "Rogues."

This wasn't how things were supposed to be. She closed her eyes and leaned her aching head against the concrete, exhausted. Some days she felt like she agreed with that news reporter—what had his name been?—who predicted Gotham would be a City of Crime within a decade, ordinary citizens evacuating as criminals from other cities flowed in to take their place… everyone knew the crime rate in Gotham was nearly five times the national average. And it wasn't merely the ordinary everyday crooks, the sort who snatched purses or broke into metal boxes or sold "protection"… after all, what sort of man demolished a _tea room?_ It was just too much. At least with ordinary criminals, there was a motive, a certain predictability. But the Rogues? Some men, she thought bitterly, just wanted to watch the world burn.

"Well…" the Mad Hatter groaned. "That's your fault… for keeping your eyes open… if you'd… if you'd shut them… tight… it wouldn't have happened." He was interrupted by another bout of coughing.

The lady couldn't help noticing that his coughs were getting weaker and shallower. Robin had mentioned a punctured lung… she looked at him, a slight twinge of pity—or misgiving—flashing through her.

_He was in pain, possibly dying. _

But he was a Rogue.

_He could very well be breathing his last. _

But he was a criminal, and an insane one at that. It could very well be a trick.

_Do unto other as you would have them do unto you._

Heaving a deep sigh, the woman moved towards the Mad Hatter, careful to stay out of reach should he somehow escape the cuffs and lunge at her with a hidden mind-control card.

"Are you all right?" she asked dutifully.

"Now don't make… don't make any more excuses, but listen," he panted, his eyes staring straight ahead. She wondered if he could hear her at all. "That's th-three faults, and you've not… been punished for any of them… yet…"

She sighed. She had absolutely no experience, either with treating punctured lungs or dealing with the mentally ill. Sometimes, she reflected, she thought the entirety of Gotham was mentally ill, and the Rogues were just the more noticeable ones. Or perhaps they were the cause of it... Who was it, Marcia Somebody from church, who'd had her car stolen by some young hoodlum in clown paint. It wasn't the real Joker, of course, and that almost made it worse. And she wasn't even going to think about the multiple "themed" hookers who populated the streets of Gotham's infamous red-light district...

"Why did you do it?" she said suddenly.

He paused at that, and looked not at her but past her with an expression of deep sadness.

"It," he said mournfully, "was the best better."

It took all her effort not to sigh again.

"But _why_?"

"Why not?" he replied, with a disturbing smile. "Take… take some more tea!"

"Did…" she stopped, trying to phrase it delicately. "Is my house all right?"

"I didn't know…" he paused, coughed weakly—it ended in a gurgle this time—"...it was your way…"

"Are _you _all right?"

No answer. For a moment she thought he had fallen asleep.

"I can't explain myself," he said finally, "because I'm not myself. They said… she was mine… I waited for… her… lies, lies, lies, _lies, LIES!_"

And, suddenly, there was no coughing. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She moved quietly, nervously closer towards him, and suddenly realized that he was completely still. His face had gone completely white, and he didn't appear to be breathing. She inhaled sharply. Was he… was he really dying? A shudder went through her. She'd seen death before, as most Gothamites had, but never this close. His lips were tinged with blue now. She should be doing something—opening his mouth, lifting him up, pounding him on the back—she was a restaurant owner; she knew the basics of CPR—do something, anything—

_Or maybe she shouldn't do anything._

In that moment, temption struck full force. The woman froze, blinking. That was a thought. Her conscience reproved her immediately, but she pushed it down.

_It wouldn't really be killing him, would it? It might not work anyway. You don't know that much about injury—for all you know, slapping him on the back might kill him instantly. Besides, it's not as if he's going to get better. Everyone knows that. The Rogues never recover, and never will recover. All they do is spend a few weeks in Arkham and escape again, you know that. Think about it. It would be doing the public a service. It would be doing you a service. You used to play in Wonderland Park as a child. Wouldn't it be nice to go there again, to take the grandson without being afraid… being afraid of him?_

"But it's wrong," she whispered.

_No. The Ten Commandments say 'Thou shall not kill', not 'Thou shalt try to save a repeat criminal using a very risky procedure that's only meant to dislodge stuck food and might actually kill him.' Besides, he might recover on his own. You don't know._

Not likely, the woman thought. The Mad Hatter's lips were blue, the color slowly spreading outward, suffusing his face and darkening. She moved towards him and paused again, thinking.

_You'd be doing the city a favor. You'd be doing Batman a favor. You'd be doing your children a favor. You might even be doing _him _a favor. One less Rogue… means one step back towards the Gotham you know and love. He will never get better, just as Gotham will never get better without them. You. Can. Do. This._

For a brief moment, a vision sprang up before her of Gotham reborn, Gotham as it used to be, Gotham as it should have been—free of terror, free of crime, free of darkness and madness and pain and fear and poison and bad jokes and everything else. There would be no more skulking, no more hanging back or avoiding certain businesses, no more precautions on Halloween or April Fools or February 2. There wouldn't be funerals over flowers or bad puns or lost coin flips; there wouldn't be pictures on milk cartons because someone had starred in a bad sitcom years ago. It was a healed Gotham, a perfect Gotham, a once-upon-a-time Gotham, and it was a beautiful, beautiful sight.

In fact, it was a Wonderland.

And all she had to do was sit back and do... nothing.

The woman turned and brought both hands down on the Mad Hatter's back in a tremendous smack. The villain's body arced in reaction, but he remained silent and still. She lifted his head, hopefully straightening the air tube, and thumped again. Nothing.

"Hail Mary, full of grace…" the woman began shakily. "The Lord is with thee…"

Holding his head up, she smacked him again, harder. There was nothing. The terrible thought that it was too late, that she had given up, that she had killed him, raced through the lady's mind. And then he coughed. Something red and sticky shot out of the Hatter's mouth, and he coughed again and again, each hack bringing up more blood. The woman in the green dress relaxed, slumped against the wall. The EMTs found them like that when they burst in minutes later, talking in broken, staccato medical lingo over Jervis and fitting an oxygen mask over his face—

"Are you all right, ma'am?" one of them asked, holding out a well-toned hand.

"I'm... fine," she replied.

"You sure?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure."

"Okay. Why don't you head back that way- hey Mike, help the lady out, would ya?- and, uh, give your statement," he said. "Then you're free to go."

The woman nodded and walked slowly in the direction he had pointed. Swallowing hard, she picked at the tear in her dress and wondered if it could be mended.

* * *

And I'm sorry if the religious talk has offended anyone, but I needed a credible reason for the woman to help an injured Rogue (other than romance) and Christianity/Catholicism seemed to fit best with her character...

Chapters 29 and 28 are out of order for no good reason, if anyone noticed, so apologies about that as well.

Also, the "some men just want to watch the world burn" line is a tribute to the brilliant, imaginative, and frankly breathtaking movie "The Dark Knight." Which I also don't own.


	31. Chapter 31

Robin rushed through the maze, leaping over the overturned card panels with ease. He was going to find Scarecrow—although he hated to admit it, Riddler was probably far, far away by now, and he didn't have the time or energy to track the wily trickster down tonight—and bring him to justice. Or Arkham; either would do, in his case. The card maze ended abruptly in a flight of stairs leading _upwards_, and Robin was about to start running up them when he caught sight of something thin and long and dust-colored lying in the shadow of the door. It was a long piece of straw. Robin immediately paused, warily scanned the area for possible ambushes, and knelt down to examine the straw. It was rather haphazardly positioned near a very suggestive crack between the last card panel and the doorframe, and it was a single strand of pale straw rather than a handful scattered over the area; probably, it had fallen off (or out) of a certain costume and not been dropped by an exuberant Scarecrow leaving the scene.

"Well," the boy vigilante commented to no one in particular, "at least someone's having bad luck besides me around here."

Straightening up, he quickly examined the crack. It was about six inches wide, and had less of the "unfortunate-odd-space-unintentionally-left-by-maze-design" look and more of the "secret-villain-escape-route-in-case-of-actual-danger" look about it. It would be child's play for the spindly Scarecrow to squeeze through; the Riddler, Robin considered, might have a bit of trouble. The Riddler had probably planned on staying safe and sound at the console while Scarecrow did the actual fighting. But there was no way Batman would have been able to follow. Fortunately, Robin thought with a wry grin, he was considerably slimmer than his mentor.

Beyond the space, a thin, narrow tunnel stretched away in both directions, while another cramped walkway led away into darkness just in front of the boy vigilante. Robin got the uncanny feeling that he was walking backstage, looking at an enormous stage set from the wrong side. This was supposed to be a secret walkway, probably to let Scarecrow or Riddler or whoever was tormenting Batman at the time move easily from place to place in the maze. If only he'd known… Robin shook the thought off and started down the tunnel in front of him. It was completely dark, and he walked with both hands on the tunnel walls, lest it be some sort of sick, demented, completely unexpected death trap. The Riddler usually had one or two somewhere in his mazes.

But this appeared to be different, and after a few seconds, a dim sort of light illuminated the hallway and Robin saw something that made his heart sink. It was a door, a secret sort of door that had brick on the outside. And it was standing open. Two heavy crossbars stood against the wall, and there were five, six, maybe even _seven _padlocks littering the floor just inside the door. Cold moonlight filtered in through the open door. So Scarecrow had made it to the outside. Robin gritted his teeth. Finding Crane now would be like looking for a needle in a haystack; the warehouse district was notorious for its winding alleys, secret doors, and not-entirely-legal safe houses used by Rogues and mafia bosses alike. Unless the mad professor had rigged up some sort of trap outside the door—which was entirely possible—he was probably hiding someplace that would take hours to find. Robin would have called it a night then and there but for Bruce. "I'm fine, just get Riddler and Scarecrow"? Going back empty-handed was not an option.

Robin sighed and walked through the door. Instantly, there was a spotlight in his eyes—although beyond it he could dimly make out several people and a car with a flashing red-and-blue light—and a loud, powerful voice shouting at him.

"Put your hands up! Put your hands—oh. Never mind, boys. That must be the lot of 'em."

"Commissioner Gordon?" Robin said, a note of disbelief in his voice.

"Robin," the Commissioner said amiably, slapping Robin on the back. "Congratulations on a job well done."

"Uh… thanks. I think."

"I got the call from Batman about an hour ago," Gordon explained, leading Robin out of the alley and into the middle of the street. Police cars surrounded the warehouse, and there were uniformed police officers everywhere. Three ambulances stood a few yards off, their lights whirling; near one of them, a team of EMTs appeared to be strapping a screaming, thrashing, terrified Harvey Bullock to a gurney. "The EMTs went in after Wayne and, uh," Gordon glanced at his notepad. "Dora Payne. Did you get the Mad Hatter?"

"I left him cuffed in there," Robin replied. "He needs some medical attention, by the way. One of Scarecrow's thugs attacked him after I'd cuffed him."

Gordon nodded, but said nothing.

"So, um… where exactly is the Scarecrow?" Robin asked.

"Well, first of all, let me congratulate you again on outsmarting those two," Gordon said. "I don't know how you do it, but let me tell you, it makes my job a heck of a lot easier."

"What?"

"Getting them to come out of the alley like that," the Commissioner said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the alley he and Robin had just vacated. "First the Riddler, then the Scarecrow… it would have been some of the easiest arrests on record, if Bullock hadn't tried to play hero and gotten himself fear gassed."

"Oh! You got them both, then?" Robin said. "Maybe my luck didn't run out after all!"

Gordon laughed quietly.

"We already sent Crane back to Arkham, but I think Nygma got routed to Blackgate Penitentiary," he said. "As soon as he gets there, we'll have a padded wagon ready for him and take him to Arkham too."

"Wonderful," Robin said, a sigh of relief escaping him. "I am so ready for this night to be over."

Gordon nodded sympathetically.

"By the way," he asked, "how long will you be working alone?"

Robin stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the paramedics headed towards the ambulance with two stretchers. The first held Jervis Tetch, looking frighteningly pale and still with an oxygen mask over his face. The second held Bruce Wayne, laughing and joking with the EMTs. As they lifted the gurney into the ambulance, the billionaire raised his arm and waved to Robin. The boy vigilante smiled.

"Batman said you were on your own tonight," Gordon pressed. "I just wanted to know how long it will last."

Robin watched as the gurney was loaded into the ambulance and the doors were shut. The lights atop the ambulance spun to life and the vehicle moved off into the night, siren wailing.

"You know," he said, "I'm not really sure."


	32. Epilogue

"Take your hands off me!" Crane spat, twisting away from the strong arms of the orderlies. **"I am Scarecrow, God of Fear—"**

"Not again," groaned one of the orderlies. "Look, mister, it's getting late and we're all tired here. Put a sock in it, will ya?"

Scarecrow's eyes narrowed, and let himself fall limp and boneless in the orderly's grasp. In the next moment, he had bolted back up, limbs flailing unpredictably in a jerky, violent dance.

"Ow—hey, where's the straitjacket? Someone get a straitjacket over here!"

Despite his best efforts, Crane was pinioned by six strong arms and slowly muscled into the confining jacket. As he felt the familiar and unwelcome sensation of his arms tightly wrapping around himself, Scarecrow's wrath broke full force. How dare they treat Scarecrow, the embodiment of fear, the personification of terror, in this manner—_how dare they! _They should be writhing on the floor before him, screaming in anguish, trapped by their own minds! To be treated in this degrading fashion—

"**Let go of me," **Scarecrow hissed, fixing his eyes on the orderly who held him down. **"Let go of me. Now." **

The orderly gulped and nodded to the others. They released Crane and backed quickly out of the padded wagon, beating a hasty retreat from the seething Scarecrow. The Arkham orderlies had long since learned that underestimating Jonathan Crane was the surest way to having one's mind permanently damaged. Stories were still told about the time he had terrified his own psychiatrist into declaring him sane, or the two inmates he had driven to suicide with mere words, or the time he had taken—and won—a bet with the Joker to make seven new interns quit within a week. The fear toxin amplified Scarecrow's power, but he was far from harmless without it. He also tended to hold grudges almost as well as he inspired terror in others; hence, the orderlies' desire to vacate the padded transport as quickly as possible. At the moment, Scarecrow was absolutely livid, and the last thing they needed was him fixing on them as future targets for punishment.

The door to the Arkham transport slammed shut as the last of the orderlies fairly leaped out. Scarecrow nodded, slightly mollified at the sight of their obvious fear. So it _was_ possible to learn without a brain. Edward Nygma's face flashed before his eyes, and he clenched his fists, his anger returning.

"**Nygma…" **

For a moment, words failed him, and Scarecrow screamed in anger, unconsciously trying to bring his straitjacketed arms forward and jerking uncomfortably in the tight cloth. A long string of obscenities flashed—

_Not yet, _Crane warned. _Wait. We must think this through. _

**He got away! **Scarecrow growled. **He betrayed us all!**

_But Robin won't give up on him, _Crane reasoned. _He hardly had a sufficient head start to leave Gotham, and as long as he's in Gotham, either the Bat or the Bird will chase him down, capture him, and return him to Arkham. _

Scarecrow grinned as Crane's words sunk in.

**Arrrkham…**

_Where, of course, we can prepare a perfectly _stunning _welcome for him. And let's not forget about Robin. After all, scaring little birds… _

Scarecrow cackled, ignoring the sudden jerk as the padded wagon started up.

**Sing a song of six**_**pence**_**, a pocket full of rye… **he sniggered. **Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a **_**pie. **_**When the pie was opened, the birds began to **_**scream**_**…**

In the front of the transport, the driver shuddered at the raspy laughter echoing from the padded back. They couldn't get back to Arkham fast enough.

* * *

A few blocks away, a Gotham police cruiser skidded to a stop before an enormous derelict warehouse. Trash littered the sidewalk, overflowing from fetid dumpsters and heaped in the ever-present shadows. The buildings were set at such narrow, crooked angles, the shadows here never left. It could be high noon in summer and they would still be there, sulking in the crevice of a pile of litter or lying formless in the corner of a back alley. Now, with the winter moon throwing her sharp rays haphazardly into Gotham's warehouse district, the shadows were everywhere. Dark shapes lay black and hidden against the warehouse side, or stared with invisible eyes from broken windows and open doors. Had the police car been using either siren or headlights, it would have been a shock to the shadows; it would have broken up the jagged lengths of blackness and set the darkness dancing. But it did not.

A door opened, and a dark form stepped out, tipping a shadowy bowler to the driver.

"All right, sir?" came a smooth voice from the automobile.

"Well done, Mr. O'Sullivan," the former passenger replied. "And let me extend my sincerest condolences."

"Huh? For what?"

"Why, for the unfortunate accident you had on your way back from the crime scene. Regrettably, it will be deemed your entire fault; you really shouldn't be transporting someone as dangerous as I am without proper safety measures."

"What—"

The moonlight flashed silver on something long and thin and straight. There was a short, sharp _pfffft_, like a hollow report, and the driver of the car fell silent. The passenger tipped his bowler hat, flashing pale green in the cold light, and hurried into the decaying building. Outside, the street lay silent as ever, a new dark shadow streaming from the door of the police cruiser.

* * *

In the Batmobile, Robin relaxed against the soft leather seat and breathed a long sigh of relief. Tonight had _not _been one he wanted to repeat.

"Computer, take us—I mean, me—home," he ordered.

As the Batmobile swung silently out of the small lot and headed back the way it had come, Alfred's voice crackled over the intercom.

"Master Dick, glad to see you're in one piece."

"Hey, Alfred," Robin replied, glancing down at the monitor. "It's all over. Scarecrow, Riddler, and Mad Hatter are all on their way back to Arkham, and nobody got hurt. It's fine."

"And do you have Master Bruce with you as well?"

"Actually, he's at the hospital. The Scarecrow gassed him."

Alfred coughed slightly.

"Didn't he go around screaming _I am a vengeance, I am the night_ last time that happened?"

"It's all right," Robin said. "He already got that out of his system."

"If you say so, sir."

"Did you make the anonymous call to the police?" Robin asked.

"As a matter of fact, I did," the butler replied. "However, I utilized the computer's voice-altering software to make it seem as if Batman were on the line."

"That probably saved Batman's secret identity," Robin reflected.

"I had a feeling it might."

"By the way…" Robin hesitated. "Look, the Riddler said something, and I'm not sure I really got it—"

"Fire away, sir. I shall be more than happy to help, if I can."

"It was a pretty simple riddle. 'What's the biggest diamond in the world?' Bruce suggested the Blue Monkey, or the Victoria… or something like that."

"Pardon me, but wouldn't the biggest diamond in the world be a baseball diamond?" Alfred asked.

"Well… sort of, but… uh… Riddler acted as if we'd solved the riddle, but we—I—never gave an answer."

"I see. Was the riddle on a door, on a wall, something of that sort?"

"No, he just asked it and then Scarecrow attacked us."

"That is puzzling. Did you, uh, stop the Scarecrow?"

"Well, yes…"

There was a brief moment of silence before Alfred spoke again.

"I believe you'll find that the biggest baseball field is—or was—the old Braves Field in Boston, where the Boston Braves played during the 1920's."

"That still doesn't answer the riddle."

"I think it does, sir. Think about it. You stood up to the Scarecrow, the Master of Fear…"

"Oh! I get it now! _Brave! _Right, to take down Scarecrow, we had to be brave."

"And, judging by what you've told me, you certainly were."

"Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You're the best."

"Yes, sir. I know."


	33. Credits

Credits:

Batman/Bruce Wayne, Robin/Dick Grayson, Scarecrow/Jonathan Crane, Riddler/Edward Nygma, Mad Hatter/Jervis Tetch, Arnold Wesker & Scarface, Harley Quinn, Dr. Leland, Dr. Bartholomew, Commissioner Gordon, Renee Monotoya, Harvey Bullock, and Alfred all belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers. All the Rogues briefly mentioned in Arkham also belong to DC Comics and Warner Brothers.

However, I (now) own Joe the thug, the (intentionally) nameless owner of the tea house, O'Sullivan, Robinson, and Wilkes, Harold and Patricia McManus, Ted Torrance, and the Riddler's nameless bodyguards.

Jervis Tetch quoted "Alice in Wonderland" and "Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There" by Lewis Carroll quite often; additionally, the "James gave his brother John a box" riddle was written by Lewis Carroll.

The "Where was Peter when the candle went out?" riddle came from Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn"; all other riddles were original.

Since I forgot to put in disclaimers in nearly all the chapters, I'll just say it right now: I don't own any of the DC characters, places, or referenced episodes. This was written purely for fun. Any profits will go to the Wayne Corporation, specifically the villain-funding chapter, in hopes of bringing back the unforgettable storylines, memorable characters, and excellent voice acting that was Batman: The Animated Series.


End file.
